4 

■■af 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


# 


GIFT  OF 


Mrs.   Gaorge  Gor« 


f 


u 


<3 


SOME    FRIENDS   OF    MINE 


BY   THE    SAME   AUTHOR 

the  open  road 
the  friendly  town 
the  gentlest  art 
her  infinite  variety 
fireside  and  sunshine 
character  and  comedy 
listener's  lure 

OVER  BEMERTON'S 

ONE  DAY  AND  ANOTHER 

ALSO 

A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 
A   WANDERER   IN    LONDON 
A   WANDERER   IN   HOLLAND 
THE   LIFE   OF   CHARLES   LAMB 
HIGHWAYS   AND   BYWAYS   IN   SUSSEX 


Copyright,  1909, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October.  1909. 


NorbaooO  JPrtaa 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CT 

\o\ 

-^6s 

TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 

I.    CHANCE   ACQUAINTANCE 

Mk.  Lintot ^L  Pope 

The  Yeoman W.  HazUit  . 

The  Chief  Mate     ....    J.R.Lowell. 

The  Hermit H.  Belloc 

The  Onion  Eater  .        .        .        .    H.  Belloc      . 

PAGE 
I 

6 

7 

lO 

14 

n.     URBAN    HUMORISTS 


Mr.  John  Bali.antvne    . 

.    John  Wihon 

17 

Mk.  John  Ballantyne   . 

.     Dr.  Mackenzie 

19 

RoMIEU 

.     Alexandre  Dumas 

23 

Mr.  Elliston  .... 

Charles  Lamb 

26 

Captain  Paton 

.    J.  G.  I.ockhart 

28 

III.     THE   COUNTRY 

GENTLEMEN 

The  Oi.ij  S<ifiRE     . 

.     Alfred  Cochrane   . 

33 

.Mr.  James  Gii.i.esi'IE 

.    James  Paterson     . 

36 

Stkuan  Kohertson 

.     Dr.  John  Brown  . 

39 

Mk.  James  Edc.ar    . 

.    James  Paterson     . 

42 

IV.    GOOD 

SERVANTS 

Rawi.e      .... 

.     S.  Baring-Gould , 

46 

Tom  Sehricht 

.     E.  V.  L.       . 

48 

Rdhekt     .... 

.     /'.  L.  Stevenson     . 

51 

WlI.I.IAM    HINTON       . 

.     E.V.L.       . 

58 

922397 


Table  of  Contents 


V.    TWO   CRICKETERS 

Alfred  Mynn           .         .         .         .IV.  Caffyn 
Alfred  Mynn          .        .        .        .    E.  V.  L. 
Alfred  Mynn          .        .        .         .A'.  Prowse 
Mr.  Aislabie E.  V.  L. 


62 
63 
65 
67 


VI.    THE   SIMPLE   MINDS 

Prince  Lee  Boo  .  .  .  .A.  Duncan  . 
Captain  Jackson  ....  Charles  Lamb 
Poet  Harding  .  .  .  .  G.  Colmati  . 
The  Wooden-Legged  Sailor  .  O.  Goldsmith 
Moses  Lump H.  Heine 


71 

73 
77 
77 
82 


VII.    TWO   BORROWERS 

Ralph  Bigod Charles  Lamb 

Mr.  Ross  OF  PiTCALNiE  .         .         .    James  Pater  son 


86 


VIII.     HUMAN   DIVINES 


Dr.  John  Brown     . 
The  Rev.  John  Berridge 

The  Rev.  Mr.  M . 

The  Rev.  Philip  Skelton 
The  Rev.  R.  S.  Hawker 


Dr.  John  Brown  . 
P.  H.  Ditchfield    . 
S.  Baring-  Gould . 
Liobert  Lynam 
S.  Baring-Gould . 


96 
100 
102 
108 


IX. 

THE 

LAW 

Henry  Erskine 

, 

.     Himself 

.     116 

Old  Scottish  Judges     . 

. 

Dean  Kamsay 

•      '17 

Old  Scottish  Judges     . 

.    James  Paterson 

•      125 

Table  of  Contents 


X.    THE   HEALERS 


PAGE 

The  House-Surgkon 

J-F.  E.  Henley 

127 

Dk.  Anderson          .        .        .        . 

Dr.  John  Brown  . 

127 

Mr.  Syme 

Dr.  John  Broiun 

130 

The  Chief  of  Staff 

W.  E.  Henley 

133 

Mk.  Lucas  the  Vet 

Albert  Pell    . 

133 

XL     MMROD'S 

HEROES 

Mr.  Lockley  .... 

C.  J.  Apperley 

137 

Mr.  John  Hawkes. 

.     C.J.  Apperley 

.        141 

Mr.  Stuubs      .... 

.     C.  J.  Apperley 

.        142 

Mr.  Leech       .... 

.      C.J.  Apperley 

•        145 

Captain  Bridges     . 

.      C.J.  Apperley 

•        147 

Mr.  Ojkhet      .... 

.      C.  J.  Apperley 

■        149 

XH.    THE  CHAMPIONS 


The  Oi.d  Swordsmen     . 
Broughton  and  Whitaker 


Tom  Cribb 
Jack  Jackson  . 
Jack  Randall 
Jack  Randall 


Captain  John  God- 
frey . 

Captain  John  God- 
frey . 

H.  D.  Miles . 

H.  D.  Miles . 

H.  D.  Miles . 


153 

'55 
15S 
159 
161 


.  J.  Hamilton  Reynolds  163 


Fl.INTER     . 

Jim  I'jowie 
Walker    . 


XHL     Tin-:   ADVENTURERS 


George 

Borrow 

165 

Major 

'J'ruiiian    . 

168 

Major 

Truman    . 

169 

Table  of  Contents 


Walker   . 
The  Breitmann 


Joaquin  Miller 
C.  G.  Leland 


I71 
173 


XIV.     WILD   IRISHMEN 


Bryan  Maguire 
Mr.  Barrington 


Pat  Power 


Anon.   . 

179 

Sir    Jonas 

Bar- 

rington 

181 

Anon.  . 

182 

XV.    THE   MASTERS 

Julius  C^sar Plutarch       .  .186 

The  Emperor //.  Heine      .  .190 

Shaun John  Savage  .     193 


XVI.     MONK   AND   LOVER 
Fra  Filippo  Lippi    .         .         .         .     W.  S.  Landor 


197 


XVII.     SIX   PAINTERS 


Leonardo  da  Vinci 

Vasari 

228 

Piero  di  Cosimo 

Fa  sari 

232 

LUCA    SiGNORELLI        . 

Vasari 

235 

Old  Crome 

George  Borrotv 

237 

Richard  Cosway     . 

.     W.  Hazlitt    . 

238 

COROT        .... 

.     Miss  Birtistingl at 

id 

Mrs.  Pollard 

240 

Table  of  Contents 


XVIII.    THE   POETS 

PAGE 

Thormod  ......  Origines  Islandicae  247 

Shelley T.J.  Hogg   .        .  252 

Shelley IF.  S.  Landor      .  261 

Walter  Savage  Landor        .        .  Himself       .        .  261 


XIX.    THE  TALKERS 

Thomas  De  Qlincey      .        .        .    J.  H.  Burton  .  264 

Crabb  Robinson      ....     W.  Bagehot  .  .  274 

James  Northcote    .        .        .        .     W.  Hazlitt    .  .  279 


XX.    TWO   BOOKWORMS 

The  Literary  Antiquary       .        .     Washington  Irving  283 

George  Dyer \V.  Hazlitt    .         .  288 

George  Dyer  .....     Charles  Lamb       .  290 


XXI.     COLLECTORS 


K 

.    /.  A'.  Lo-vell . 

293 

Jdhn  Lamb 

.     Charles  Lamb 

295 

Car  RIGA  holt    . 

.     A.   W.  Kinglake  . 

301 

Archdeacon  Meadow     . 

.    J.  H.  Burton 

305 

M.  Villenave 

.     Alexandre  Dumas 

309 

XXH.     THE    PATRIOTS 

The  Peasant  of  BRrLf: .  .  .  H.  Belloc  .  .315 
Chodklc-DiX'Los  ....  Alexandre  Dtimas  318 
The  P'rench  Drummer  .        .        .     //.  Heine      .        .     323 


Table  of  Contents 


XXIII.     TEACHERS   OF  YOUTH 


John  Sowerby 

Professor  Campbell  Eraser 

K      .        .        .        . 

P 

John  Stuart  Blackie 

S 

Richard  Farmer    . 


A.  C.  Hilton 
J.  M.  Bai-rie 
J.  R.  Lowell. 
J.  R.  Lowell . 
/.  M.  Bar  He 
J.  R.  Lo7vell. 
E.  V.  L. 


325 
326 

329 

334 
338 
340 


XXIV.    THE   GENTLE 


The  Cardinal's  Friends 
Saint  Francis 
Charles  Lounsbury 


/.  H.  A^ewman  .  345 
Thomas  of  Celano  346 
E.  V.  L.        .         .     355 


XXV.     LAST   OF  ALL 
Our  Oldest  F'riend        .        .        .     O.  W.  Holmes 


359 


SOME    FRIENDS    OF    MINE 


SOME   FRIENDS    OF    MINE 


CHANCE   ACQUAINTANCE 

Mr.  Lintot     <i>.        ^o        ^:>        <:>        <:>        -^^ 

(In  a  letter  from  Pope  to  the  Earl  of  Burlington) 

MY  Lord;  If  your  mare  could  speak,  she  would  give 
you  an  account  of  what  extraordinary  Company 
she  had  on  the  road;  which  since  she  cannot  do,  I  will. 
It  was  the  enterprising  Mr.  Lintot,  the  redoubtable  rival 
of  Mr.  Tonson,  who,  mounted  on  a  stone-horse,  (no  dis- 
agreeable companion  to  your  Lordship's  Mare,)  overtook 
me  in  Windsor-Forest.  He  said,  he  heard  I  designed  for 
Oxford,  the  seat  of  the  Muses,  and  would,  as  my  Book- 
seller, by  all  means,  accompany  me  thither. 

I  asked  him  where  he  got  his  horse?  He  answered,  he 
got  it  of  his  Publisher:  "For  that  rogue  my  Printer  (said 
he)  disappointed  me:  I  hoped  to  put  him  in  good  humour 
by  a  treat  at  the  tavern,  of  a  brown  fricassee  of  Rabbits, 
which  cost  two  shillings,  with  two  quarts  of  wine,  besides 
my  conversation. 

"I  thought  myself  cock-sure  of  his  horse,  which  he 
readily  promised  me,  but  said  that  Mr.  Tonson  had  just 

B  I 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

such  another  design  of  going  to   Cambridge,   expecting 

there  the  copy  of  a  new  kind  of  Horace  from  Dr.  ; 

and  if  Mr.  Tonson  went,  he  was  pre-engaged  to  attend, 
being  to  have  the  printing  of  the  said  copy.  So,  in  short, 
I  borrowed  this  stone-horse  of  my  Pubhsher,  which  he  had 
of  Mr.  Oldmixon  for  a  debt;  he  lent  me  too  the  pretty 
boy  you  see  after  me :  he  was  a  smutty  dog  yesterday,  and 
cost  me  near  two  hours  to  wash  the  ink  off  his  face;  but 
the  Devil  is  a  fair-conditioned  Devil,  and  very  forward 
in  his  catechise :  if  you  have  any  more  bags,  he  shall  carry 
them."  —  I  thought  Mr.  Lintot's  civility  not  to  be  neglected, 
so  gave  the  boy  a  small  bag,  containing  three  shirts  and  an 
Elzevir  Virgil ;  and  mounting  in  an  instant  proceeded  on 
the  road,  with  my  man  before,  my  courteous  Stationer 
beside,  and  the  aforesaid  Devil  behind. 

Mr.  Lintot  began  in  this  manner:    "Now  d them! 

what  if  they  should  put  it  into  the  newspapers,  how  you 
and  I  went  together  to  Oxford?  what  would  I  care?  If 
I  should  go  down  into  Sussex,  they  would  say  I  was  gone 
to  the  Speaker.     But  what  of  that?     If  my  son  were  but 

big  enough  to  go  on' with  the  business,  by  I  would 

keep  as  good  company  as  old  Jacob." 

Hereupon  I  enquired  of  his  son.  "The  lad  (says  he) 
has  fine  parts,  but  is  somewhat  sickly,  much  as  you  are. 
—  I  spare  for  nothing  in  his  education  at  Westminster. 
Pray,  don't  you  think  Westminster  to  be  the  best  school 
in  England?  Most  of  the  late  Ministry  came  out  of  it, 
so  did  many  of  this  Ministry.  I  hope  the  boy  will  make 
his  fortune." 

Don't  you  design  to  let  him  pass  a  year  at  Oxford? 
"To  what  purpose?  (said  he).  The  Universities  do  but 
make  Pedants,  and  I  intend  to  breed  him  a  man  of 
business." 


Chance  Acquaintance 

As  Mr.  Lintot  was  talking,  I  obsenTd  he  sat  uneasy 
on  his  saddle,  for  which  I  expressed  some  solicitude. 
"Nothing,"  says  he,  "I  can  bear  it  well  enough;  but,  since 
we  have  the  day  before  us,  methinks,  it  would  be  very 
pleasant  for  you  to  rest  awhile  under  the  woods."  When 
we  were  alighted,  "See  here  what  a  mighty  pretty  Horace 
I  have  in  my  pocket !  what  if  you  amused  yourself  in  turn- 
ing an  Ode,  till  we  mount  again  ?  Lord !  if  you  pleased, 
what  a  clever  Miscellany  might  you  make  at  leisure  hours?" 

Perhaps  I  may,  said  I,  if  we  ride  on ;  the  motion  is  an 
aid  to  my  fancy,  a  round  trot  very  much  awakens  my 
spirits;  then  jog  on  apace,  and  I'll  think  as  hard  as  I  can. 

Silence  ensued  for  a  full  hour;  after  which  Mr.  Lintot 
lugged  the  reins,  stopped  short,  and  broke  out,  "Well, 
Sir,  how  far  have  you  gone?"     I  answered.  Seven  miles. 

"Z ds.  Sir,'.'  said  Lintot,  "I  thought  you  had  done 

seven  stanzas.  Oldisworth,  in  a  ramble  round  Wimbleton- 
hill,  would  translate  a  whole  Ode  in  half  this  time.  I'll 
say  that  for  Oldisworth  (though  I  lost  by  his  Timothy's) 
he  translates  an  Ode  of  Horace  the  quickest  of  any  man 
in  England.  I  remember  Dr.  King  would  write  verses 
in  a  tavern  three  hours  after  he  could  not  speak:  and 
there's  Sir  Richard,  in  that  rumbling  old  chariot  of  his, 
between  Fleet-ditch  and  St.  Giles's  pound,  shall  make 
you  half  a  Job." 

Pray,  Mr.  Lintot,  (said  I,)  now  you  talk  of  Translators, 
what  is  your  method  of  managing  them?  "Sir,  (replied 
he,)  those  are  the  saddest  pack  of  rogues  in  the  world :  in 
a  hungry  fit,  they'll  swear  they  understand  all  the  lan- 
guages in  the  universe:  I  have  known  one  of  them  take 
down  a  Greek  book  upon  my  counter  and  cry.  Ah,  this  is 

Hebrew,  I  must  read  it  from  the  latter  end.     By I 

can  never  be  sure  in  these  fellows,  for  I  neither  understand 

3 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Greek,  Latin,  French,  nor  Italian  myself.  But  this  is 
my  way;  I  agree  with  them  for  ten  shillings  per  sheet, 
with  a  proviso  that  I  will  have  their  doings  corrected  by 
whom  I  please;  so  by  one  or  other  they  are  led  at  last  to 
the  true  sense  of  an  Author;  my  judgment  giving  the 
negative  to  all  my  translators." 

But  how  are  you  secure  those  correctors  may  not  impose 
upon  you?  "Why  I  get  any  civil  gentleman  (especially 
any  Scotchman)  that  comes  into  my  shop,  to  read  the 
original  to  me  in  English;  by  this  I  know  whether  my  first 
translator  be  deficient,  and  whether  my  corrector  merits 
his  money  or  not.     I'll  tell  you  what  happened  to  me  last 

month :   I  bargained  with  S for  a  new  version  of  I.,u- 

cretius,  to  publish  against  Tonson's;  agreeing  to  pay  the 
author  so  many  shillings  at  his  producing  so  many  lines. 
He  made  a  great  progress  in  a  very  short  time,  and  I  gave 
it  to  the  Corrector  to  compare  with  the  Latin;  but  he  went 
directly  to  Creech's  translation,  and  found  it  the  same, 
word  for  word,  all  but  the  first  page.  Now,  what  d'ye 
think  I  did?  I  arrested  the  Translator  for  a  cheat;  nay, 
and  I  stopt  the  Corrector's  pay  too,  upon  this  proof  that 
he  had  made  use  of  Creech  instead  of  the  original." 

Pray  tell  me  next  how  you  deal  with  the  Critics  ?  "  Sir," 
said  he,  "nothing  more  easy.  I  can  silence  the  most 
formidable  of  them:  the  rich  ones  for  a  sheet  apiece  of 
the  blotted  manuscript,  which  cost  me  nothing;  they'll 
go  about  with  it  to  their  acquaintance,  and  pretend  they 
had  it  from  the  author,  who  submitted  it  to  their  correc- 
tion :  this  has  given  some  of  them  such  an  air,  that  in  time 
they  come  to  be  consulted  with,  and  dedicated  to,  as  the 
top  Critics  of  the  town.  —  As  for  the  poor  Critics,  I'll 
give  you  one  instance  of  my  management,  by  which  you 
may  guess  at  the  rest.     A  lean  man,  that  looked  like  a  very 

4 


Chance  Acquaintance 

good  scholar,  came  to  me  t'  other  day;  he  turned  over  your 
Homer,  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
pish'd  at  every  line  of  it:  One  would  wonder  (says  he)  at 
the  strange  presumption  of  some  men :    Homer  is  no  such 

easy  task,  that   every  stripling,  every  versifier He 

was  going  on,  when  my  wife  called  to  dinner:  Sir,  said  I, 
will  you  please  to  eat  a  piece  of  beef  with  me?  Mr. 
Lintot,  said  he,  I  am  sorr)'  you  should  be  at  the  expence 
of  this  great  book ;  I  am  really  concerned  on  your  account 

Sir,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you :   if  you  can  dine  upon 

a  piece  of  beef,  together  with  a  slice  of  pudding Mr. 

Lintot,  I  do  not  say  but  Mr.  Pope,  if  he  would  condescend 

to  advise  with  men  of  learning Sir,  the  pudding  is 

upon  the  table,  if  you  please  to  go  in My  Critic  com- 
plies, he  comes  to  a  taste  of  your  poetry,  and  tells  me  in  the 
same  breath,  that  the  book  is  commendable,  and  the  pud- 
ding e.xccllcnl.  —  Now,  Sir  (concluded  Mr.  Lintot,)  in  return 
to  the  frankness  I  have  shewn,  pray  tell  me,  is  it  the  opinion 
of  your  friends  at  Court,  that  my  Lord  Lansdown  will  be 
brought  to  the  bar  or  not?"  I  told  him  I  heard  he  would 
not,  and  I  hoped  it,  my  Lord  being  one  I  had  particular 
obligations   to.     "This   may   be,    (replied    Mr.    Lintot); 

but  by ,  if  he  is  not,  I  shall  lose  the  printing  of  a  very 

good  trial."  These,  my  Lord,  are  a  few  traits  by  which 
you  discern  the  genius  of  Mr.  Lintot,  which  I  have  chosen 
for  the  subject  of  a  letter.  I  dropt  him  as  soon  as  I 
got  to  O.xford,  and  paid  a  visit  to  my  Lord  Carleton  at 
Middleton. 

The  conversations  I  enjoy  here  are  not  to  be  prejudiced 
by  my  pen,  and  the  pleasures  from  them  only  to  be  equalled 
when  I  meet  your  Lordshij).  I  hope  in  a  few  days  to  cast 
myself  from  your  horse  at  your  feet. 

A.  Pope 

5 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 


The  Yeoman    ^oy       ^;>       <i^       ^v>       '<q:>       ^c:> 


A 


TALL  English  yeoman  (something  Hke  Mathews  in 
the  face,  and  quite  as  great  a  wag)  — 

A  lusty  man  to  ben  an  abbot  able, — 


was  making  such  a  prodigious  noise  about  rents  and  taxes, 
and  the  price  of  corn  now  and  formerly,  that  he  had  pre- 
vented us  from  being  heard  at  the  gate.  The  first  thing 
I  heard  him  say  was  to  a  shuffling  fellow  who  wanted  to 
be  off  a  bet  for  a  shilling  glass  of  brandy  and  water  — 
"Confound  it,  man,  don't  be  insipid!"  Thinks  I,  that 
is  a  good  phrase.  It  was  a  good  omen.  He  kept  it  up 
so  all  night,  nor  flinched  with  the  approach  of  morning. 
He  was  a  fine  fellow,  with  sense,  wit,  and  spirit,  a  hearty 
body  and  a  joyous  mind,  free-spoken,  frank,  convivial  — 
one  of  that  true  English  breed  that  went  with  Harry  the 
Fifth  to  the  siege  of  Harfleur  —  "standing  like  greyhounds 
in  the  slips,"  etc.  We  ordered  tea  and  eggs  (beds  were 
soon  found  to  be  out  of  the  question)  and  this  fellow's 
conversation  was  saiice  piquante.  It  did  one's  heart  good 
to  see  him  brandish  his  oaken  towel  and  to  hear  him  talk. 
He  made  mince-meat  of  a  drunken,  stupid,  red-faced, 
quarrelsome,  frowsy  farmer,  whose  nose  "he  moralised 
into  a  thousand  similes,"  making  it  out  a  firebrand  like 
Bardolph's.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  my  friend,"  says  he,  "the 
landlady  has  only  to  keep  you  here  to  save  fire  and  candle. 
If  one  was  to  touch  your  nose,  it  would  go  off  like  a  piece 
of  charcoal."  At  this  the  other  only  grinned  like  an 
idiot,  the  sole  variety  in  his  purple  face  being  his  little 
peering  grey  eyes  and  yellow  teeth;  called  for  another 
glass,  swore  he  would  not  stand  it ;  and  after  many  attempts 
to  provoke  his  humorous  antagonist  to  single  combat, 
6 


Chance  Acquaintance 

which  the  other  turned  off  (after  working  him  up  to  a 
ludicrous  pitch  of  choler)  with  great  adroitness,  he  fell 
quietly  asleep  with  a  glass  of  liquor  in  his  hand,  which 
he  could  not  Hft  to  his  head.  His  laughing  persecutor 
made  a  speech  over  him,  and  turning  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room,  where  they  were  all  sleeping  in  the  midst  of 
this  "loud  and  furious  fun,"  said,  "There's  a  scene,  by 
G— d,  for  Hogarth  to  paint.  I  think  he  and  Shakspeare 
were  our  two  best  men  at  copying  life."  This  confirmed 
me  in  my  good  opinion  of  him.  Hogarth,  Shakspeare,  and 
Nature,  were  just  enough  for  him  (indeed  for  any  man) 
to  know.  I  said,  "  You  read  Cobhett,  don't  you  ?  At  least," 
says  I,  "you  talk  just  as  well  as  he  writes."  He  seemed 
to  doubt  this.  But  I  said,  "We  have  an  hour  to  spare: 
if  you'll  get  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  keep  on  talking,  I'll 
write  down  what  you  say;  and  if  it  doesn't  make  a  capital 
'Political  Register,'  I'll  forfeit  my  head.  You  have 
kept  me  alive  to-night,  however.  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done  without  you."  He  did  not  dislike  this 
view  of  the  thing,  nor  my  asking  if  he  was  not  about  the 
size  of  Jem  Belcher;  and  told  me  soon  afterwards,  in  the 
confidence  of  friendship,  that  "the  circumstance  which 
had  given  him  nearly  the  greatest  concern  in  his  life,  was 
Cribb's  l)eating  Jem  after  he  had  lost  his  eye  by  racket- 

f^'^>'^"S"  W.  Hazlitl 

The  Chief  Mate      -^^^         ^r^.^         <:>         ^o         'O 

BUT  after  all.  Nature,  though  she  may  be  more  beauti- 
ful, is  nowhere  so  entertaining  as  in  man,  and  the  best 
thing  I  have  seen  and  learned  at  sea  is  our  Chief  Mate. 
My  first  acquaintance  with  him  was  made  over  my  knife, 
wliich  he  asked  lu  look  at,  and,  after  a  critical  examination, 

7 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

handed  back  to  me,  saying,  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that 
'ere  was  a  good  piece  o'  stuff."  Since  then  he  has  trans- 
ferred a  part  of  his  regard  for  my  knife  to  its  owner. 

I  Hke  folks  who  like  an  honest  piece  of  steel,  and  take 
no  interest  whatever  in  "your  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and 
stuff."  There  is  always  more  than  the  average  human 
nature  in  a  man  who  has  a  hearty  sympathy  with  iron. 
It  is  a  manly  metal,  with  no  sordid  associations  like  gold 
and  silver.  My  sailor  fully  came  up  to  my  expectation  on 
further  acquaintance.  He  might  well  be  called  an  old 
salt  who  had  been  wrecked  on  Spitzbergen  before  I  was 
born.  He  was  not  an  American,  but  I  should  never  have 
guessed  it  by  his  speech,  which  was  the  purest  Cape  Cod, 
and  I  reckon  myself  a  good  taster  of  dialects.  Nor  was  he 
less  Americanised  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  a  singu- 
lar proof  of  the  ease  with  which  our  omnivorous  country 
assimilates  foreign  matter,  provided  it  be  Protestant,  for 
he  was  a  man  ere  he  became  an  American  citizen. 

He  used  to  walk  the  deck  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
in  seeming  abstraction,  but  nothing  escaped  his  eye. 
How  he  saw,  I  could  never  make  out,  though  I  had  a  theory 
that  it  was  with  his  elbows.  After  he  had  taken  me  (or  my 
knife)  into  his  confidence,  he  took  care  that  I  should  see 
whatever  he  deemed  of  interest  to  a  landsman.  Without 
looking  up,  he  would  say,  suddenly,  "There's  a  whale 
blowin'  clearn  up  to  win'ard,"  or,  "Them's  porpises  to 
leeward:  that  means  change  o'  wind."  He  is  as  imper- 
vious to  cold  as  the  polar  bear,  and  paces  the  deck  during 
his  watch  much  as  one  of  those  yellow  hummocks  goes 
slumping  up  and  down  his  cage.  On  the  Atlantic,  if 
the  wind  blew  a  gale  from  the  north-east,  and  it  was  cold 
as  an  English  summer,  he  was  sure  to  turn  out  in  a  calico 
shirt  and  trousers,  his  furzy  brown  chest  half  bare,  and 


Chance  Acquaintance 

slippers,  without  stockings.  But  lest  you  might  fancy 
this  to  have  chanced  by  defect  of  wardrobe,  he  comes  out 
in  a  monstrous  pea-jacket  here  in  the  Mediterranean, 
when  the  evening  is  so  hot  that  Adam  would  have  been 
glad  to  leave  off  his  fig-leaves.  "It's  a  kind  o'  damp 
and  unwholesome  in  these  'ere  waters,"  he  says,  evidently 
regarding  the  Midland  Sea  as  a  vile  standing  pool,  in 
comparison  with  the  bluff  ocean.  At  meals  he  is  superb, 
not  only  for  his  strengths,  but  his  weaknesses.  He  has 
somehow  or  other  come  to  think  me  a  wag,  and  if  I  ask 
him  to  pass  the  butter,  detects  an  occult  joke,  and  laughs 
as  much  as  is  proper  for  a  mate.  For  you  must  know 
that  our  social  hierarchy  on  ship-board  is  precise,  and  the 
second  mate,  were  he  present,  would  only  laugh  half  as 
much  as  the  first.  Mr.  X.  always  combs  his  hair,  and 
works  himself  into  a  black  frock-coat  (on  Sundays  he  adds 
a  waistcoat)  before  he  comes  to  meals,  sacrificing  himself 
nobly  and  painfully  to  the  social  proprieties.  The  second 
mate,  on  the  other  hand,  who  eats  after  us,  enjoys  the  privi- 
lege of  shirt -sleeves,  and  is,  I  think,  the  happier  man  of  the 
two.  We  do  not  have  seats  above  and  below  the  salt, 
as  in  old  time,  but  above  and  below  the  white  sugar.  Mr. 
X.  always  takes  brown  sugar,  and  it  is  delightful  to  see  how 
he  ignores  the  existence  of  certain  delicatcs  which  he 
considers  above  his  grade,  tipping  his  head  on  one  side 
with  an  air  of  abstraction,  so  that  he  may  seem  not  to 
deny  himself,  but  to  omit  helping  himself  from  inadvertence 
or  absence  of  mind.  At  such  times  he  wrinkles  his  fore- 
head in  a  peculiar  manner,  inscrutable  at  first  as  a  cunei- 
form inscription,  but  as  easily  read  after  you  once  get 
the  key.  The  sense  of  it  is  something  like  this:  "I,  X., 
know  my  place,  a  height  of  wisdom  attained  by  few. 
Whatever  you  may  think,  I  do  not  see  that  currant  jelly, 

9 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

nor  that  preserved  grape.     Especially,  a  kind  Providence 

has  made  me  blind  to  bowls  of  white  sugar,  and  deaf  to 

the  pop  of  champagne  corks.     It  is  much  that  a  merciful 

compensation  gives  me  a  sense  of    the    dingier    hue  of 

Havanna,   and  the  muddier  gurgle  of  beer.     Are  there 

potted  meats  ?     My  physician  has  ordered  me  three  pounds 

of  minced  salt-junk  at  every  meal."     There  is  such  a  thing, 

you  know,  as  a  ship's  husband:    X.  is  the  ship's  poor 

relation. 

J.  R.  Lowell 

The  Hermit  ^;:>        <:::>        ^::>        ^Oy.        ^o        ^Ci, 

T  TURNED  round  and  saw  there  a  man  of  no  great 
-^  age  and  yet  of  a  venerable  appearance.  He  was 
perhaps  fifty-five  years  old,  or  possibly  a  little  less,  but 
he  had  let  his  grey-white  hair  grow  longish  and  his  beard 
was  very  ample  and  fine.  It  was  he  that  had  addressed 
me.  He  sat  dressed  in  a  long  gown  in  a  modern  and 
rather  luxurious  chair  at  a  low  long  table  of  chestnut 
wood,  on  which  he  had  placed  a  few  books,  which  I  saw 
were  in  several  languages,  and  two  of  them  not  only  in 
English  but  having  upon  them  the  mark  of  an  English 
circulating  library  which  did  business  in  the  great  town 
at  our  feet.  There  was  also  upon  the  table  a  breakfast 
ready  of  white  bread  and  honey,  a  large  brown  coffee-pot, 
two  white  cups,  and  some  goat's  milk  in  a  bowl  of  silver. 
This  meal  he  asked  me  to  share. 

"It  is  my  custom,"  he  said,  "when  I  see  a  traveller 
coming  up  my  mountain  road  to  get  out  a  cup  and  a  plate 
for  him,  or,  if  it  is  midday,  a  glass.  At  evening,  however, 
no  one  ever  comes." 

"Why  not?"    said  I. 

"Because,"  he  answered,  "this  lane  goes  but  a  few  yards 

10 


Chance  Acquaintance 

further  round  the  edge  of  the  cHff,  and  there  it  ends  in 
a  precipice;  the  little  platform  where  we  are  is  all  but 
the  end  of  the  way.  Indeed,  I  chose  it  upon  that  account, 
seeing,  when  I  first  came  here,  that  from  its  height  and 
isolation  it  was  well  fitted  for  my  retreat." 

I  asked  him  how  long  ago  that  was,  and  he  said  nearly 
twenty  years.  For  all  that  time,  he  added,  he  had  lived 
there,  going  down  into  the  plain  but  once  or  twice  in  a 
season,  and  having  for  his  rare  companions  those  who 
brought  him  food  and  the  peasants  on  such  days  as  they 
toiled  up  to  work  at  their  plots  towards  the  summit; 
also,  from  time  to  time,  a  chance  traveller  like  myself. 
But  these,  he  said,  made  but  poor  companions,  for  they 
were  usually  such  as  had  missed  their  way  at  the  turning 
and  arrived  at  that  high  place  of  his  out  of  breath  and 
angry.  I  assured  him  that  this  was  not  my  case,  for  a  man 
had  told  me  in  the  night  how  to  find  his  hermitage  and 
I  had  come  of  set  purpose  to  see  him.     At  this  he  smiled. 

We  were  now  seated  together  at  table,  eating  and  talking 
so,  when  I  asked  him  whether  he  had  a  reputation  for 
sanctity  and  whether  the  people  brought  him  food.  He 
answered  with  a  little  hesitation  that  he  had  a  reputation, 
he  thought,  for  necromancy  rather  than  anything  else, 
and  that  upon  this  account  it  was  not  always  easy  to  per- 
suade a  messenger  to  bring  him  the  books  in  French  and 
English  which  he  ordered  from  below,  though  these  were 
innocent  enough,  being,  as  a  rule,  novels  written  by  women 
or  academicians,  records  of  travel,  the  classics  of  the  Eigh- 
teenth Centur)',  or  the  biographies  of  aged  statesmen. 
As  for  food,  the  people  of  the  place  did  indeed  bring 
it  to  him,  but  not,  as  in  an  idyll,  for  courtesy;  contrari- 
wise, they  demanded  heavy  {)aymcnl,  and  his  chief  difliculty 
was  with  bread ;  for  stale  bread  was  intolerable  to  him.  in 
II 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

the  matter  of  religion  he  would  not  say  that  he  had  none, 
but  rather  that  he  had  several  religions ;  only  at  this  season 
of  the  year,  when  everything  was  fresh,  pleasant  and  enter- 
taining, he  did  not  make  use  of  any  of  them,  but  laid  them 
all  aside.  As  this  last  saying  of  his  had  no  meaning  for 
me  I  turned  to  another  matter  and  said  to  him: 

"In  any  solitude  contemplation  is  the  chief  business 
of  the  soul.  How,  then,  do  you,  who  say  you  practise  no 
rites,  fill  up  your  loneliness  here?" 

In  answer  to  this  question  he  became  more  animated, 
spoke  with  a  sort  of  laugh  in  his  voice,  and  seemed  as 
though  he  were  young  again  and  as  though  my  question 
had  aroused  a  whole  lifetime  of  good  memories. 

"My  contemplation,"  he  said,  not  without  large  ges- 
tures, "is  this  wide  and  prosperous  plain  below:  the 
great  city  with  its  harbour  and  ceaseless  traffic  of  ships, 
the  roads,  the  houses  building,  the  fields  yielding  every 
year  to  husbandry,  the  perpetual  activities  of  men.  I 
watch  my  kind  and  I  glory  in  them,  too  far  off  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  friction  of  individuals,  yet  near  enough  to 
have  a  daily  companionship  in  the  spectacle  of  so  much 
life.  The  mornings,  when  they  are  all  at  labour,  I  am 
inspired  by  their  energy;  in  the  noons  and  afternoons 
I  feel  a  part  of  their  patient  and  vigorous  endurance ;  and 
when  the  sun  broadens  near  the  rim  of  the  sea  at  evening, 
and  all  work  ceases,  I  am  filled  with  their  repose.  The 
lights  along  the  harbour  front  in  the  twilight  and  on  into 
the  darkness  remind  me  of  them  when  I  can  no  longer 
see  their  crowds  and  movements,  and  so  does  the  music 
which  they  love  to  play  in  their  recreation  after  the  fatigues 
of  the  day,  and  the  distant  songs  which  they  sing  far  into 
the  night. 


12 


Chance  Acquaintance 

"I  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  had  seen  (in  a 
career  of  diplomacy)  many  places  and  men;  I  had  a 
fortune  quite  insufficient  for  a  life  among  my  equals. 
My  youth  had  been,  therefore,  anxious,  humiliated,  and 
worn  when,  upon  a  feverish  and  unhappy  holiday  taken 
from  the  capital  of  this  State,  I  came  by  accident  to  the 
cave  and  platform  which  you  see.  It  was  one  of  those 
days  in  which  the  air  exhales  revelation,  and  I  clearly 
saw  that  happiness  inhabited  the  mountain  corner.  I 
determined  to  remain  for  ever  in  so  rare  a  companionship, 
and  from  that  day  she  has  never  abandoned  me.  For 
a  little  while  I  kept  a  touch  with  the  world  by  purchasing 
those  newspapers  in  which  I  was  reported  shot  by  brigands 
or  devoured  by  wild  beasts,  but  the  amusement  soon 
wearied  me,  and  now  I  have  forgotten  the  very  names  of 
my  companions." 

We  were  silent  then  until  I  said: 

"But  some  day  you  will  die  here  all  alone." 

"And  why  not?"  he  answered  calmly.  "It  will  be  a 
nuisance  for  those  who  find  me,  but  I  shall  be  indifferent 
altogether." 

"That  is  blasphemy,"  says  I. 

"So  says  the  priest  of  St.  Anthony,"  he  immediately 
replied  —  but  whether  as  a  reproach,  an  argument,  or  a 
mere  commentary  I  could  not  discover. 

In  a  little  while  he  advised  me  to  go  down  to  the  plain 
before  the  heat  should  incommode  my  journey.  I  left 
him,  therefore,  reading  a  book  of  Jane  Austen's,  and  I 
have  never  seen  him  since. 

Of  the  many  strange  men  I  have  met  in  my  travels  he 
was  one  of  the  most  strange  and  not  the  least  fortunate. 
Every  word  I  have  written  about  him  is  true. 

H.  Belloc 

'3 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

The  Onion  Eater       ^c^        -v:^^        -Qy       '^       ^^ 

IT  was  then  that  I  saw  before  me,  going  easily  and 
slowly  across  the  Downs,  the  figure  of  a  man. 

He  was  powerful,  full  of  health  and  easy;  his  clothes 
were  rags;  his  face  was  open  and  bronzed.  I  came  at 
once  off  my  horse  to  speak  with  him,  and,  holding  my 
horse  by  the  bridle,  I  led  it  forward  till  we  met.  Then  I 
asked  him  whither  he  was  going,  and  whether,  as  I  knew 
these  open  hills  by  heart,  I  could  not  help  him  in  any  way. 

He  answered  me  that  he  was  in  no  need  of  help,  for 
he  was  bound  nowhere,  but  that  he  had  come  up  off  the 
high  road  on  to  the  hills  in  order  to  get  his  pleasure  and 
also  to  see  what  there  was  on  the  other  side.  He  said  to 
me  also,  with  evident  enjoyment  (and  in  the  accent  of  a 
lettered  man),  "This  is  indeed  a  day  to  be  alive !" 

I  saw  that  I  had  here  some  chance  of  an  adventure, 
since  it  is  not  every  day  that  one  meets  upon  a  lonely  down 
a  man  of  culture,  in  rags  and  happy.  I  therefore  took  the 
bridle  right  off  my  horse  and  let  him  nibble,  and  I  sat  down 
on  the  bank  of  the  Roman  road  holding  the  leather  of  the 
bridle  in  my  hand,  and  wiping  the  bit  with  plucked  grass. 
The  stranger  sat  down  beside  me,  and  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  piece  of  bread  and  a  large  onion.  We  then  talked  of  those 
things  which  should  chiefly  occupy  mankind;  I  mean,  of 
happiness  and  of  the  destiny  of  the  soul.  Upon  these 
matters  I  found  him  to  be  exact,  thoughtful,  and  just. 

First,  then,  I  said  to  him:  "I  also  have  been  full  of 
gladness  all  this  day,  and,  what  is  more,  as  I  came  up  the 
hill  from  Waltham  I  was  inspired  to  verse,  and  wrote  it 
inside  my  mind,  completing  a  passage  I  had  been  working 
at  for  two  years,  upon  joy.  But  it  was  easy  for  me  to  be 
happy,  since  I  was  on  a  horse  and  warm  and  well  fed ;  yet 
14 


Chance  Acquaintance 

even  for  me  such  days  are  capricious.  I  have  known  but 
few  in  my  life.  They  are  each  of  them  distinct  and  clear, 
so  rare  are  they,  and  (what  is  more)  so  different  are  they  in 
iheir  very  quality  from  all  other  days." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  "in  this  last  phrase  of  yours 
.  .  .  they  are  indeed  quite  other  from  all  the  common 
days  of  our  lives.  But  you  were  wrong,  I  think,  in  saying 
that  your  horse  and  clothes  and  good  feeding  and  the  rest 
had  to  do  with  these  curious  intervals  of  content.  Wealth 
makes  the  run  of  our  days  somewhat  more  easy,  poverty 
makes  them  more  hard  —  or  very  hard.  But  no  poverty 
has  ever  yet  brought  of  itself  despair  into  the  soul  —  the 
men  who  kill  themselves  are  neither  rich  nor  poor.  Still 
less  has  wealth  ever  purchased  those  peculiar  hours.  I 
also  am  filled  with  their  spirit  to-day,  and  God  knows," 
said  he,  cutting  his  onion  in  two,  so  that  it  gave  out  a  strong 
savour,  "God  knows  I  can  purchase  nothing." 

"Then  tell  me,"  I  said,  "whence  do  you  believe  these 
moments  come?  And  will  you  give  me  half  your  onion?" 
"With,  pleasure,"  he  replied,  "for  no  man  can  eat  a 
whole  onion ;  and  as  for  that  other  matter,  why,  I  think  the 
door  of  heaven  is  ajar  from  time  to  time,  and  that  light  shines 
out  upon  us  for  a  moment  between  its  opening  and  closing." 
He  said  this  in  a  merry,  sober  manner;  his  black  eyes 
sparkled,  and  his  large  beard  was  blown  alxjut  a  little  by 
the  wind.  Then  he  added :  "  If  a  man  is  a  slave  to  the  rich 
in  the  great  cities  (the  most  miserable  of  mankind),  yet 
tlicse  days  come  to  him.  To  the  vicious  wealthy  and  privi- 
leged men,  whose  faces  are  stamped  hard  with  degradation, 
these  days  come;  they  come  to  you,  you  say,  working  (I 
sui)pose)  in  an.xiety  like  most  of  men.  They  come  to  me 
who  neither  work  nor  am  an.xious  so  long  as  South  England 
may  freely  impcjrl  onions." 

»5 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  I  said.  "And  I  especially 
commend  you  for  eating  onions ;  they  contain  all  health ; 
they  induce  sleep ;  they  may  be  called  the  apples  of  content, 
or,  again,  the  companion-fruits  of  mankind." 

"I  have  always  said,"  he  answered  gravely,  "that  when 
the  couple  of  them  left  Eden  they  hid  and  took  away  with 
them  an  onion.  I  am  moved  in  my  soul  to  have  known  a 
man  who  reveres  and  loves  them  in  the  due  measure,  for 
such  men  are  rare." 

Then  he  asked,  with  evident  anxiety:  "Is  there  no 
inn  about  here  where  a  man  like  me  will  be  taken  in  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  told  him.  "Down  under  the  Combe  at  Dune- 
ton  is  a  very  good  inn.  Have  you  money  to  pay?  Will 
you  take  some  of  my  money  ?  " 

"I  will  take  all  you  can  possibly  afford  me,"  he  answered 
in  a  cheerful,  manly  fashion.  I  counted  out  my  money  and 
found  I  had  on  me  but  3s.  yd.     "Here  is  3s.  yd.,"  I  said. 

"Thank  you,  indeed,"  he  answered,  taking  the  coins 
and  wrapping  them  in  a  little  rag  (for  he  had  no  pockets, 
but  only  holes). 

"I  wish,"  I  said  with  regret,  "we  might  meet  and  talk 
more  often  of  many  things.  So  much  do  we  agree,  and 
men  like  you  and  me  are  often  lonely." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  put  his  head  on  one  side, 
quizzing  at  me  with  his  eyes.  Then  he  shook  his  head 
decidedly,  and  said:  "No,  no  —  it  is  certain  that  we  shall 
never  meet  again."  And  thanking  me  with  great  fervour, 
but  briefly,  he  went  largely  and  strongly  down  the  escarp- 
ment of  the  Combe  to  Duncton  and  the  weald. 

H.  Belloc 


16 


II 

URBAN   HUMORISTS 
Mr.  John  Ballantyne  <n,        ^;;v^        -Oy       -qn^        ^;>y 


TT  rniLE  we  were  casting  about  in  this  way,  whom 
*  *  should  we  see  turning  the  corner  of  Hanover- 
street  in  an  elegant  dennet,  and  at  a  noble  trot,  but  our 
excellent  friend  Mr.  John  Ballantyne?  We  thought  he 
had  still  been  on  the  Continent,  and  have  seldom  been 
more  gratified  than  by  the  unexpected  apparition.  There 
he  was,  as  usual,  arrayed  in  the  very  pink  of  knowingness 
—  grey  frock  and  pebble  buttons,  Buckskins,  topboots, 
etc.  —  the  whip  —  for  Old  Mortality  needs  no  whip  — 
dangling  from  the  horn  behind  —  and  that  fine  young 
grew  Dominie  Sampson,  capering  round  about  him  in 
the  madness  of  his  hilarity.  Whenever  we  met  last  spring 
we  used  to  have  at  least  a  half -hour's  doleful  chat  on  the 
[)rogress  and  symptoms  of  our  respective  rheumatisms  — 
but  Ballantyne  now  cut  that  topic  short  in  a  twinkling, 
assuring  us  he  had  got  rid  of  the  plague  entirely  —  and, 
indeed,  nobody  couUl  look  in  his  merry  face  without  seeing 
that  it  was  so.  We  never  croak  to  people  that  are  in  sound 
health  —  and,  therefore,  not  likely  to  enter  into  the  spirit 
c  17 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

of  our  miseries;  so  affecting  an  air  of  perfect  vigor,  we 
began  to  talk,  in  the  most  pompous  manner,  about  our  late 
exploits  in  the  moors,  regretting,  at  the  same  time,  that 
Ballantyne  had  not  come  home  in  time  to  make  one  of  our 
party  on  the  12th  of  August.  "We  are  just  off  again  for 
Braemar,"  said  we.  "The  devil  you  are,"  said  John,  "I 
don't  much  care  to  go  with  you  if  you'll  take  me."  "By 
all  means,  you  delight  us,"  said  we.  "Well,"  cried  he, 
"what  signifies  bothering,  come  along,  I'll  just  call  at 
Trinity  for  half  a  dozen  clean  shirts  and  neckcloths,  and 
let's  be  off."  "Done,"  said  we,  mounting  to  the  lower 
cushion,  "only  just  drive  us  over  the  way  and  pick  up  our 
portmanteau."  No  sooner  said  than  done.  In  less  than  an 
hour  we  found  ourselves,  with  all  the  cargo  on  board,  scud- 
ding away  at  twelve  knots  an  hour  on  the  Queens-ferry  road. 
During  the  whole  journey  to  our  Tent,  we  were  kept 
in  a  state  of  unflagging  enjoyment  by  the  conversation  of 
our  companion.  Who,  indeed,  could  be  dull  in  immediate 
juxtaposition  with  so  delightful  a  compound  of  wit  and 
warm-heartedness?  We  have  heard  a  thousand  story- 
tellers, but  we  do  not  remember  among  the  whole  of  them 
more  than  one  single  individual,  who  can  sustain  the  briefest 
comparison  with  an  exquisite  bibliopole.  Even  were  he 
to  be  as  silent  as  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets,  the  beaming 
eloquence  of  that  countenance  alone  would  be  enough  to 
diffuse  a  spirit  of  gentle  joviality  over  all  who  might  come 
into  his  presence.  We  do  not  think  Allan  has  done  justice 
to  Mr.  Ballantyne's  face,  in  his  celebrated  masterpiece, 
"Hogg's  House-heating."  He  has  caught,  indeed,  the 
quaint,  sly  archness  of  the  grin,  and  the  light,  quick,  irre- 
sistible glance  of  the  eyes;  but  he  has  omitted  entirely  that 
fine  cordial  suffusion  of  glad,  kind,  honest,  manly  mirth, 
which  lends  the  truest  charm  to   the  whole  physiognomy 


Urban   Humorists 

because  it  reveals  the  essential  elements  of  the  character, 
whose  index  that  most  original  physiognomy  is.  But 
the  voice  is  the  jewel  —  who  shall  ever  describe  its  wonders  ? 
Passing  at  will  through  every  note  of  seriousness  and 
passion,  down  into  the  most  dry,  husky  vibrations  of  gruflf- 
ness,  or  the  most  sharp  feeble  chirpings  of  old  woman's 
querulousness,  according  to  the  minutest  specialities  of  the 
character  introduced  for  the  moment  upon  the  stage  of  that 
perpetual  Aristophanic  comedy;  his  conversation  —  why, 
Bannister,  Mathews,  Liston,  Yates,  Russel  —  none  of  them 
all  is  like  John  Ballantyne,  when  that  eye  of  his  has  fairly 
caught  its  inspiration  from  the  sparkle  of  his  glass. 

John  Wilson 

II 

JOHN  BALLANTYNE  w^as  next  brother  to  James 
Scott's  printer  and  confidential  friend,  and  like  him, 
was  in  the  secret  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  In  1809,  he 
was  started  by  Scott  and  his  brother,  in  the  publishing 
house  of  "John  Ballantyne  &  Company,"  at  Edinburgh, 
in  opposition  to  Constable.  One  of  his  first  publications 
was  Scott's  "Lady  of  the  Lake."  After  the  success  of 
Waverley,  he  published  a  wretched  novel.  The  Widow's 
Lodgings.  The  pul)lishing  business  did  not  succeed, 
and  the  firm  was  dissolved.  John  Ballantyne  then  be- 
came an  auctioneer,  a  business  for  which  he  was  well 
qualified.  In  181 7,  Scott  contributed  several  minor  poems 
to  a  periodical  of  his  called  The  Sale  Room.  Ballantyne 
died  June,  1821,  aged  45.  Scott  attended  his  funeral,  and 
said,  "  I  feel  as  if  there  would  be  less  sunshine  for  me  from 
this  day  forth."  Lockhart  says,  "He  was  a  quick,  active, 
intre[)ifl  little  fellow;  and  in  .society  .so  very  lively  and 
amusing;  so  full  of  fun  and  merriment;  such  a  thoroughly 

19 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

light-hearted  droll,  all  over  quaintness  and  humorous 
mimicry;  and  moreover,  such  a  keen  and  skilful  devotee  to 
all  manner  of  field-sports,  from  fox-hunting  to  badger- 
bating  inclusive,  that  it  was  no  wonder  he  should  have  made 
a  favorable  impression  on  Scott."  And  again,  "Of  his 
style  of  story-telling  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  late 
Charles  Mathews'  "Old  Scotch  Lady"  was  but  an  imper- 
fect copy  of  the  original,  which  the  great  imitator  first 
heard  in  my  presence  from  his  lips.  .  .  . 

Lockhart  says,  "His  horses  were  all  called  after  heroes 
in  Scott's  poems  or  novels;  and  at  this  time  he  usually 
rode  up  to  his  auction  on  a  tall  milk-white  hunter,  yclept 
Old  Mortality,  attended  by  a  leash  or  two  of  greyhounds, 

—  Di  Vernon,  Jenny  Dennison,  etc.,  by  name."  .  .  . 

In  John  Ballantyne's  latter  days,  he  was  fitting  up  a 
mansion  near  Kelso,  which  he  called  Walton  Hall,  but 
in  1819,  he  inhabited  Harmony  Hall,  by  Trinity,  near 
the  Firth  of  Forth.  "Here,"  says  Lockhart,  "Braham 
quavered,  and  here  Liston  drolled  his  best,  —  here  John- 
stone,  and   Murray,   and  Yates,   mixed  jest   and  stave, 

—  here  Kean  revelled  and  rioted,  —  and  here  did  the 
Roman  Kemble  often  play  the  Greek  from  sunset  to  dawn. 
Nor  did  the  popular  cantatrice  or  danseuse  of  the  time  dis- 
dain to  freshen  her  roses,  after  a  laborious  week,  amidst 
these  Paphian  bowers  of  Harmony  Hall." 

Dr.  Mackenzie 

III 

CHEPHERD.    Johnny  Ballantyne ! 

North.  Methinks  I  see  him  —  his  slight  slender 
figure  restless  with  a  spirit  that  knew  no  rest  —  his  face 
so  suddenly  changeful  in  its  expression  from  what  a 
stranger  might  have  thought  habitual  gravity,  into  what 


Urban  Humorists 

his  friends  knew  to  be  native  there  —  glee  irrepressible 
and  irresistible  —  the  very  madness  of  mirth,  James,  in 
which  the  fine  ether  of  animal  spirits  seemed  to  respire 
the  breath  of  genius,  and  to  shed  through  the  room,  or 
the  open  air,  a  contagion  of  cheerfulness,  against  which 
no  heat  was  proof,  however  sullen,  and  no  features  could 
stand,  however  grim,  but  still  all  the  company,  Canters 
and  Convenanters  inclusive,  relaxed  and  thawed  into 
murmurs  of  merriment,  even  as  the  strong  spring  sun- 
shine sends  a-singing  the  bleak  frozen  moor-streams,  till 
all  the  wilderness  is  alive  with  music. 

Shepherd.  He  was  indeed  a  canty  cretur  —  a  delichtfu' 
companion. 

North.  I  hear  his  voice  this  moment  within  my  imagina- 
tion, as  distinct  as  if  it  were  speaking.  'Twas  exceedingly 
pleasant. 

Shepherd.  It  was  that.  Verra  like  Sandy's  —  only  a 
hue  merrier,  and  a  few  beats  in  the  minute  faster.  Oh, 
sir !  hoo  he  wou'd  hae  enjoyed  the  Noctes,  and  hoo  the 
Noctes  would  hae  enjoyed  him  ! 

North.  In  the  midst  of  our  merriment,  James,  often 
has  that  thought  come  over  me  like  a  cloud. 

Shepherd.   What'n  a  lauch ! 

North.   Soul-and-heart-felt ! 

Shepherd.  Mony  a  strange  story  fell  down  stane-dead 
when  his  tongue  grew  mute.  Thoosands  o'  curious,  na, 
unaccountable  anecdotes,  ceased  to  be,  the  day  his  een 
were  closed;  for  he  tcl't  them,  sir,  as  ye  ken,  wi'  his  een 
mair  than  his  lips;  and  his  verra  hawns  spak,  when  he 
snapped  his  forefinger  and  his  thoomb,  or  wi'  the  hail 
five  spread  out  —  and  he  had  what  I  ca'an  elegant  hawn  o' 
fine  fingers,  as  maist  wutty  men  hae  —  manually  illustrated 
his  soobjeck,  till  the  words  gaed  aff,  murmuring  like  bees 
21 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

frae  the  tips,  and  then  Johnny  was  quate  again  for  a  minute 
or  sae,  till  some  ither  freak  o'  a  fancy  came  athwart  his  genie, 
and  instantly  loupt  intil  look,  lauch  or  speech  —  or  rather 
a'  the  three  thegither  in  ane,  while  Sir  Walter  Himsel' 
keckled  on  his  chair,  and  leanin'  wi'  thae  extraordinar' 
chowks  o'  his,  that  aften  seem  to  me  amaist  as  expressive 
as  his  pile  o'  forehead,  hoo  wou'd  he  fix  the  grey  illumination 
o'  his  een  on  his  freen  Johnny,  and  ca'  him  by  that  familiar 
name,  and  by  the  S3TTipathy  o'  that  maist  capawcious  o' 
a'  sowles,  set  him  clean  mad  —  richt  doon  wudd  a'  the- 
gither —  till  really,  sir,  he  got  untholeably  divertin',  and 
folk  compleen'd  o'  pains  in  their  sides,  and  sat  wi'  the  tears 
rinnin'  doon  their  cheeks,  praying  for  him  gudeness  to 
haud  his  tongue,  for  that  gin  he  didna,  somebody  or  ither 
wou'd  be  fa'in  doon  in  a  fit,  and  be  carried  out  dead. 

North.  A  truce,  my  dear  James,  to  all  such  dreams. 
Yet  pleasant,  though  mournful  to  the  soul,  is  the  memory 
of  joys  that  are  past !  And  never,  methinks,  do  we  feel  the 
truth  of  that  beautiful  sentiment  more  tenderly,  than  when 
dimly  passeth  before  our  eyes,  along  the  mirror  of  imagina- 
tion, —  for  I  agree  with  thee,  thou  sagest  of  Shepherds, 
that  when  the  heart  is  finely  touched  by  some  emotion  from 
the  past,  the  mirror  of  imagination  and  of  memory  is  one 
and  the  same,  held  up  as  if  in  moonlight  by  the  hands  of 
Love  or  Friendship,  —  never  feel  we  the  truth  of  that 
beautiful  sentiment  more  tenderly,  I  repeat,  James,  than 
when  we  suddenly  rebehold  there  the  image  —  the  shadow 
of  some  face  that  when  alive  wore  a  smile  of  perpetual 
sunshine  —  somewhat  saddened  now,  though  cheerful 
still,  in  the  momentary  vision  —  and  then,  as  we  continue 
to  gaze  upon  it,  undergoing  sad  obscuration,  and  soon  dis- 
appearing in  total  eclipse. 

John  Wilson 

22 


Urban   Humorists 

Romieu  <i.       -^       ^o       ^;>       <:>       <:i.' 

ROMIEU  would  enter  a  grocer's  shop. 
"Good-morning,  monsieur." 

"Monsieur,  your  very  humble  servant." 

"Have  you  candles  eight  to  the  pound?" 

"Certainly,  monsieur,  plenty  of  them;  it  is  an  article 
much  in  demand,  for  there  are  more  small  purses  than 
large  ones." 

"Your  observ^ation,  monsieur,  savours  of  higher  matters 
than  groceries." 

Romieu  and  the  grocer  bowed  to  each  other. 

"You  flatter  me,  monsieur." 

"Monsieur  said  that  he  wanted  .  .  .?" 

"One  candle  of  eight  to  the  pound." 

"Only  one?" 

"Yes,  at  first;   later,  I  will  see." 

The  grocer  took  a  candle  out  of  a  packet. 

"Here  it  is,  monsieur." 

"Will  you  cut  it  in  half?     I  detest  fingering  candles !" 

"Quite  so,  monsieur;  they  have  such  a  strong  smell. 
.  .  .  Here  is  your  candle  in  two  pieces." 

"Ah !  now  will  you  be  good  enough  to  cut  each  of  those 
halves  into  four  pieces?" 

"Into  four?" 

"Yes,  I  need  eight  pieces  of  candle  for  my  purpose." 

"Here  are  your  eight  pieces,  monsieur." 

"Pardon  me,  will  you  oblige  me  by  preparing  the 
wicks  for  me?" 

"The  whole  eight?" 

"Seven  rather,  since  one  naturally  has  its  wick  ready." 

"Quite  so." 

"That  is  ail   right  .  ,   .  there,     there,  very  good  .  .  . 

23 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

there,  thank  you.  Now  then  .  .  .  place  them  on  the 
counter  at  three  inches'  distance  from  one  another  .  .  . 
Ah!  .  .  ." 

"But  what  on  earth  is  that  for?" 

"You  will  see.  .  .  .  Now,  would  you  have  the  goodness 
to  lend  me  a  lucifer  match?" 

"Certainly  .  .  .  take  one." 

"Thanks." 

And  Romieu  would  solemnly  light  the  eight  candle-ends. 

"But  what  is  that  for,  monsieur?" 

"I  am  creating  a  farce." 

"A  farce?" 

"Yes." 

"And  now  .  .  .?" 

"And  now  the  farce  is  done,  I  am  going;"  and  Romieu 
would  nod  to  the  grocer  and  make  off. 

"What!  are  you  going  without  paying  for  the  candle?" 
shrieked  the  grocer.     "At  least  pay  for  the  candle." 

Romieu  would  turn  round  — 

"If  I  paid  for  the  candle,  where  would  be  the  farce?" 

And  he  would  go  on  his  way  quite  heedless  of  the  grocer's 
objurgations. 

Occasionally,  Romieu's  ambitions  would  soar  higher  than 
teasing  grocers,  and  he  would  play  irreverent  pranks  in 
higher  circles  of  commerce.  . 

One  evening,  he  was  passing  along  the  rue  de  Seine, 
at  the  corner  of  the  rue  de  Bussy,  at  half-past  twelve 
midnight,  when  an  assistant  was  preparing  to  close  the 
shop  of  Les  Deux  Magots.  Generally,  the  establishment 
closed  at  eleven,  so  it  was  unusually  late. 

Romieu  rushed  inside  the  shop. 

"Where  is  the  proprietor  of  the  establishment?" 

"M.  P ?" 

24 


Urban  Humorists 

"Yes." 

"He  has  gone  to  bed." 

"Has  he  been  gone  long?" 

"About  an  hour." 

"But  he  sleeps  in  the  house?" 

"Certainly." 

"Take  me  to  him." 

"But,  monsieur  .  .  ." 

"Without  delay." 

"But  .  .  ." 

"Instantly." 

"Is  your  communication  then  of  so  pressing  a  nature?" 

"It  is  so  important  that  I  shudder  lest  I  be  too  late." 

"Since  monsieur  assures  me  .  .  ." 

"Come,  take  me  to  him,  take  me  to  him  quickly!" 

The  assistant  did  not  wait  to  close  the  shop,  but  took 

Romieu  through    into    an    ante-room,    where  M.   P 

was  snoring  like  a  bass-viol. 

"M.  P !  M.  P !  .  .  ."  shouted  the  shopboy. 

"Well,  what  is  it?     Go  to  the  devil  with  you!     What 
do  you  want  ?  " 

"It  is  not  I  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  saying  it  is  not  you  ?  " 

"No,  it  is  a  gentleman  who  wishes  a  few  words  with 
you." 

"At  this  time  of  night?" 

"He  says  it  is  very  urgent." 

"Where  is  the  gentleman?" 

"He  is  at  the  door.     Come  in,  monsieur,  come  in." 

Romieu  entered  on  tiptoe,  hat  in  hand,  with  a  smiling 
countenance. 

"Pardon,  monsieur,  a  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing 
you." 

25 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

"Oh,    do    not    mention    it,    Monsieur;     it   is   nothing. 
What  is  your  business?" 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  your  partner." 

"With  my  partner?" 

"Yes." 

"But  I  have  no  partner." 

"You  haven't?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  put  on  your  sign,  'Aux  Deux  Magots' ? 
It  deceives  the  public ! " 

Alexandre  Dumas  {translated  by  E.  M.  Waller) 


Mr.  EUiston  -<:i,        >«;>        ^i,.        ^o        ^cy        ^o 

O,  IT  was  a  rich  scene,  —  but  Sir  A C ,  the  best 
of  story-tellers  and  surgeons,  who  mends  a  lame 
narrative  almost  as  well  as  he  sets  a  fracture,  alone  could 
do  justice  to  it,  —  that  I  was  a  witness  to,  in  the  tarnished 
room  (that  had  once  been  green)  of  that  same  little  Olympic. 
There,  after  his  deposition  from  Imperial  Drury,  he  sub- 
stituted a  throne.  That  Olympic  Hill  was  his  "highest 
heaven";  himself  "Jove  in  his  chair."  There  he  sat  in 
state,  while  before  him,  on  complaint  of  prompter,  was 
brought  for  judgment  —  how  shall  I  describe  her?  —  one 
of  those  little  tawdry  things  that  flirt  at  the  tails  of  choruses 
—  a  probationer  for  the  town,  in  either  of  its  senses  —  the 
pertest  little  drab  —  a  dirty  fringe  and  appendage  of  the 
lamp's  smoke  —  who,  it  seems,  on  some  disapprobation 
expressed  by  a  "highly  respectable"  audience,  —  had 
precipitately  quitted  her  station  on  the  boards,  and  with- 
drawn her  small  talents  in  disgust. 

"And  how  dare  you,"  said  her  manager,  —  assuming  a 
26 


Urban  Humorists 

censorial  severity,  which  would  have  crushed  the  confi- 
dence of  a  Vestris,  and  disarmed  that  beautiful  Rebel  her- 
self of  her  professional  caprices  —  I  verily  believe,  he 
thought  her  standing  before  him  —  "how  dare  you,  Madam, 
withdraw  yourself,  without  a  notice,  from  your  theatrical 
duties?"  "I  was  hissed,  Sir."  "And  you  have  the  pre- 
sumption to  decide  upon  the  taste  of  the  town?"  "I  don't 
know  that.  Sir,  but  I  will  never  stand  to  be  hissed,"  was 
the  subjoinder  of  young  Confidence  —  when,  gathering  up 
his  features  into  one  significant  mass  of  wonder,  pity,  and 
expostulatory  indignation  —  in  a  lesson  never  to  have  been 
lost  upon  a  creature  less  forward  than  she  who  stood 
before  him  —  his  words  were  these:  "They  have  hissed 
me.^' 

'Twas  the  identical  argument  a  fortiori,  which  the  son 
of  Peleus  uses  to  Lycaon  trembling  under  his  lance,  to 
persuade  him  to  take  his  destiny  with  a  good  grace.  "I 
too  am  mortal."  And  it  is  to  be  believed  that  in  both 
cases  the  rhetoric  missed  of  its  application,  for  want  of 
a  proper  understanding  with  the  faculties  of  the  respective 
recipients. 

"Quite  an  Opera  pit,"  he  said  to  me,  as  he  was  courteously 
conducting  me  over  the  benches  of  his  Surrey  Theatre,  the 
last  retreat,  and  recess,  of  his  every-day  waning  grandeur. 

Those  who  knew  Elliston,  will  know  the  manner  in 
which  he  pronounced  the  latter  sentence  of  the  few  words 
I  am  about  to  record.  One  j)roud  day  to  me  he  took 
his  roast  mutton  with  us  in  the  Temple,  to  which  I  had 
sujjcraddcd  a  preliminary  haddock.  After  a  rather 
plentiful  partaking  of  the  meagre  banquet,  not  unrc- 
freshed  with  the  humbler  sort  of  liquors,  I  made  a  sort  of 
apology  for  the  humility  of  the  fare,  observing  that  for 
my  own   part   I   never  ate  but  one  dish  at  dinner.     "I 

27 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

too  never  eat  but  one  thing  at  dinner,"  —  was  his  reply 
—  then  after  a  pause  —  "reckoning  fish  as  nothing."  The 
manner  was  ail.  It  was  as  if  by  one  peremptory  sentence 
he  had  decreed  the  annihilation  of  all  the  savoury  esculents, 
which  the  pleasant  and  nutritious  food-giving  Ocean 
pours  forth  upon  poor  humans  from  her  watery  bosom. 
This  was  greatness,  tempered  with  considerate  tenderness 
to  the  feelings  of  his  scanty  but  welcoming  entertainer. 

Charles  Lamb 


Captain  Paton       ^o        ^Qy        ^v>        -v:>         -^Ci^ 


nnOUCH   once  more   a  sober  measure,  and  let  punch 
J-      and  tears  be  shed 
For  a  prince  of  good  old  fellows,  that,  alack  a-day!  is 

dead; 
For  a  prince  of  worthy  fellows,  and  a  pretty  man  also, 
That  has  left  the  Saltmarket  in  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe. 
Oh !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo ! 


His  waistcoat,  coat,  and  breeches,  were  all  cut  oflf  the 

same  web. 
Of  a  beautiful  snuff-color,  or  a  modest  genty  drab; 
The  blue  stripe  in  his  stocking  round  his  neat  slim  leg 

did  go. 
And  his  ruffles  of  the  Cambric  fine  they  were  whiter  than 
the  snow. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo ! 
28 


Urban  Humorists 


His  hair  was  curled  in  order,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

In  comely  rows  and  buckles  smart  that  about  his  ears 

did  run; 
And  before  there  was  a  toupee  that  some  inches  up  did 

grow, 
And  behind  there  was  a  long  queue  that  did  o'er  his 

shoulders  flow. 
Oh !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo  ! 


And  whenever  we  foregathered,  he  took  ofif  his  wee  three- 

cockit, 
And  he  proffered  you  his  snuff-box,  which  he  drew  from 

his  side  pocket. 
And  on  Burdett  or  Bonaparte,  he  would  make  a  remark 

or  so, 
And  then  along  the  plainstones  like  a  provost  he  would  go. 
Oh !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo  ! 


In  dirty  days  he  picked  well  his  footsteps  with  his  rattan, 
Oh !  you  ne'er  could  sec  the  least  speck  on  the  shoes  of 

Captain  Paton; 
And  on  entering  the  CofTcc-room  about  two,  all  men  did 

know. 
They  would  see  him  with  his  Courier  in  the  middle  of  the 
row. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  .sec  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo! 
29 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 


Now  and  then  upon  a  Sunday  he  invited  me  to  dine, 

On  a  herring  and  a  mutton-chop  which  his  maid  dressed 

very  fine: 
There  was  also  a  little  Malmsey,  and  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux, 
Which   between  me  and  the  Captain  passed  nimbly  to 

and  fro. 
Oh !  I  ne'er  shall  take  pot-luck  with  Captain  Paton  no 

mo! 


Or  if  a  bowl  was  mentioned,  the  Captain  he  would  ring, 
And  bid  Nelly  run  to  the  West-port,  and  a  stoup  of  water 

bring; 
Then  would  he  mix  the  genuine  stuff,  as  they  made  it 

long  ago. 
With  limes  that  on  his  property  in  Trinidad  did  grow. 
Oh !  we  ne'er  shall  taste  the  like  of  Captain  Paton's 

punch  no  mo ! 


And  then  all  the  time  he  would  discourse  so  sensible  and 

courteous. 
Perhaps  talking  of  the  last  sermon  he  had  heard  from 

Dr.  Porteous, 
Or  some  little  bit  of  scandal  about  Mrs.  so  and  so, 
Which  he  scarce  could  credit,  having  heard  the  con  but  not 

the  pro. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  hear  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo  I 

30 


Urban   Humorists 


Or  when  the  candles  were  brought  forth,  and  the  night 

was  fairly  setting  in, 
He  would  tell  some  fine  old  stories  about  Minden-field  or 

Dettingen  — 
How  he  fought  with  a  French  major,  and  despatched  him  at 

a  blow, 
While  his  blood  ran  out  like  water  on  the  soft  grass  below. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  hear  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo  ! 


But  at  last  the  Captain  sickened  and  grew  worse  from  day 

to  day. 
And  all  missed  him  in  the  Coffee-room  from  which  now  he 

stayed  away  ; 
On  Sabbaths,  too,  the  Wee  Kirk  made  a  melancholy  show, 
All  for  wanting  of  the  presence  of  our  venerable  beau. 
Oh !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo  1 


And  in  spite  of  all  that  Clcghorn  and  Corkindale  could  do, 
It  was  plain,  from  twenty  symptoms  that  death  was  in  his 

view; 
So  the  Captain  made  his  test'ment,  and  submitted  to  his 

foe. 
And  we  layed  him  by  the  Rams-horn-kirk  —  'tis  the  way 

we  all  must  go. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  .see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo! 

31 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 


Join  all  in  chorus,  jolly  boys,  and  let  punch  and  tears  be 

shed. 
For  this  prince  of  good  old  fellows,  that  alack  a-day!  is 

dead; 
For  this  prince  of  worthy  fellows,  and  a  pretty  man  also. 
That  has  left  the  Saltmarket,  in  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe ! 
For  it  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no  mo ! 

J.  G.  Lockhart 


32 


Ill 

THE   COUNTRY   GENTLEMEN 


The  Old  Squire      'v^ 


-Qy  <:>  ''v^  "V^ 


EXACTLY  two-and-sixty  years 
Have  passed  since  some  old  stable  crony, 
Obedient  to  his  childish  tears, 

Placed  him  upon  a  Shetland  pony, 
And  bade  him  show  himself  a  boy 

Moved  by  hereditary  forces, 
Fit  son  of  those  whose  chiefest  joy 
Was  ever  horsemanship  and  horses. 

A  squire  himself  and  born  of  squires. 

He  bears,  to  Domesday-Book  appealing, 
A  name  well  honoured  in  the  Shires 

For  centuries  of  upright  dealing; 
His  battlemented  towers  command 

A  stately  pleasaunce,  iron-gated, 
Where,  at  a  former  owner's  hand, 

Good  Queen  Elizabeth  was  feted. 

Here  are  his  grandsires  on  the  wall, 
Deaf  to  the  summons  of  November, 

And  some  were  short  and  some  were  tall. 
And  one,  I  think,  a  county  member; 

D  33 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

And  one  declined  on  personal  grounds 
A  peerage  of  Lord  North's  persuasion, 

But  one  and  all  they  rode  to  hounds 
On  every  possible  occasion. 

Each  season  at  the  covertside, 

A  shade  more  grey,  a  trifle  thinner, 
Sees  him,  his  good  bay  mare  astride, 

As  keen  as  any  young  beginner; 
And  in  a  fast  thing  over  grass, 

I'll  lay  long  odds  that  you  will  find  him 
With  two  or  three,  perhaps,  to  pass. 

But  a  good  many  more  behind  him. 

With  perfect  seat  and  perfect  hands, 

He  flashes  past  you,  like  a  vision, 
While  no  surveyor  understands 

The  country-side  with  more  precision; 
He  knows  where  every  fox  will  break. 

He  knows  where  every  brook  is  shallow. 
The  line  that  every  run  will  take. 

And  every  inch  of  plough  and  fallow. 

When  frost  his  favourite  sport  prevents 

He  makes  the  circuit  of  the  stable. 
Then,  with  contented  sentiments. 

Betakes  him  to  his  study  table; 
For  literature  he  reads  the  Times, 

Jorrocks,  of  course,  and  Scott  and  Lytton, 
Whyte-Melville,  Lindsay  Gordon's  rhymes. 

And  lives  of  famous  men  like  Mytton. 

His  politics,  I  fear,  are  gone 
To  pieces,  never  to  be  mended; 

34 


The  Country   Gentlemen 

He  tells  }'0U  that  with  Palmerston 
The  race  of  English  statesmen  ended; 

Though  now  and  then,  in  language  terse, 
He  owns,  when  new  ideas  are  busy, 

That  matters  would  be  none  the  worse 
For  half  an  hour  or  so  of  Dizzy. 

He  never  brought  his  youthful  lore 

To  swell  our  over-stocked  professions, 
But  he's  a  county  councillor 

And  chairman  of  the  Quarter  Sessions; 
Indeed  he  does  with  average  brains 

Good  senice  to  his  Queen  and  nation. 
And  neither  asks  for  nor  obtains 

A  sixpence  of  remuneration. 

Living  beneath  the  open  sky. 

With  rustic  rest  and  peace  around  him, 
The  world  has  somehow  passed  him  by 

And  left  him  almost  as  it  found  him; 
He  does  not  know  what  others  know. 

He  shuns  advancement  like  a  bogey. 
So  that  young  Folly  calls  him  slow 

And  fancies  him  a  dull  old  fogey. 

Yet,  though  he  never  goes  to  town. 

The  thoughtful  critic,  standing  sentry 
Over  old  virtues,  writes  him  down 

A  bulwark  of  the  landed  gentry; 
He  does  his  feudal  duties  well. 

Just  as  his  fathers  did  before  him, 
And,  though  a  stranger  in  Pall  Mall, 

His  loyal  tenantr)*  adore  him. 

35 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

And  when  the  summons  comes  at  last 

His  meetings  and  his  meets  to  cancel, 
When,  with  the  Nimrods  of  the  past 

He  gathers  underneath  the  chancel, 
Some  will  regret,  in  all  the  stress 

Of  theory  new  and  practice  newer. 
One  gallant  fox-hunter  the  less, 

One  fine  old  gentleman  the  fewer. 

Alfred  Cochrane 

Mr.  James  Gillespie     -civ       <:i^       o       ^;:b'       <2y 

JAMES,  in  particular,  is  described  as  one  of  the  best  and 
kindest  of  men;  living  among  his  domestics  in  the 
most  homely  and  patriarchal  manner.  Many  of  the  last 
century  characters  of  Edinburgh  were  supplied  with  snuff 
gratis  by  the  Messrs.  Gillespie. 

Among  others.  Laird  Robertson  and  Jean  Cameron 
had  their  "mulls"  regularly  filled.  He  invariably  sat  at 
the  same  table  with  his  servants,  indulging  in  familiar 
conversation  and  entering  with  much  spirit  into  their 
amusements.  Newspapers  were  not  so  widely  circulated 
at  that  period  as  they  are  now,  and  on  the  return  of  any 
of  his  domestics  from  the  city,  which  one  or  other  of  them 
daily  visited,  he  listened  with  great  attention  to  "the 
news,"  and  enjoyed  with  much  zest  the  narration  of  any 
jocular  incident  that  had  occurred. 

Of  the  younger  portion  of  his  dependants  he  took  a 
fatherly  charge,  instilling  into  their  minds  the  most  whole- 
some advice,  and  to  all  recommending  habits  of  sobriety 
and  industry.  "Waste  not,  want  not,"  was  a  favourite 
maxim  in  his  household  economy;  yet  the  utmost  abun- 
dance of  every  necessary,  of  the  best  quality,  and  at  the 
36 


The   Country   Gentlemen 

command  of  all  the  inmates,  was  unscrupulously  provided. 
Neither  was  his  generosity  confined  to  objects  of  his  own 
species.  It  extended  alike  to  every  living  creature  about 
his  establishment.  From  his  horses  to  his  poultry,  all 
e.xperienced  the  bounty  of  his  hand;  and  wherever  he 
went,  in  the  fields,  or  about  his  own  doors,  he  had  difficulty 
in  escaping  from  their  affectionate  gambols  and  joyous 
clamour. 

The  almost  companionable  fondness  reciprocal  betwixt 
the  laird  and  his  riding-horse,  was  altogether  amusing. 
Well  fed,  and  in  excellent  spirit  and  condition,  it  frequently 
indulged  in  a  little  restive  curveting  with  its  master,  es- 
pecially when  the  latter  was  about  to  get  into  the  saddle. 
"Come,  come,"  he  would  say  on  such  occasions,  address- 
ing the  animal  in  his  usual  quiet  way,  "hac  dune  noo, 
for  ye'll  no  like  if  I  come  across  your  lugs  (ears)  wi'  the 
stick."  This  "terror  to  evil-doers"  he  sometimes  bran- 
dished, but  was  never  known  to  "come  across  the  lugs" 
of  any  one. 

As  a  landlord  Mr.  Gillespie  was  peculiarly  indulgent. 
On  his  property  were  numerous  occupiers  of  small  cottages 
and  portions  of  ground.  From  these  he  collected  his  rents 
just  as  they  found  it  convenient  to  pay,  and  he  scrupled 
not  to  accept  the  most  trifling  instalment.  Andrew,  his 
apprentice  in  the  mill,  was  frequently  despatched  in  the 
capacity  of  collector  of  arrears.  On  his  return,  the  old 
man  would  inquire —  "Weel,  laddie,  hae  ye  gotten  ony- 
thing?"  Andrew's  reply  frequently  intimated  the  amazing 
receipt  of  one  shillint^l  "Weel,  weel,  it's  aye  better  than 
naething;  but  it's  weel  seen  they're  the  lairds  and  no  me.'' 
To  legal  measures  he  never  resortefl. 

Even  when  well  advanced  in  years,  Mr.  Gillesjjie  con- 
tinued to  maintain  the  industrious  habits  he  had  pursued 

37 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

through  life.  With  an  old  blanket  around  him,  and  a 
nightcap  on,  covered  over  with  snuff,  he  attended  regularly 
in  the  mill,  superintending  the  operations  of  his  man, 
Andrew.  He  kept  a  carriage,  for  which  the  Hon.  Henry 
Erskine  facetiously  suggested  as  a  motto  — 

Wha  wad  hae  thocht  it, 
That  noses  had  bocht  it. 

The  carriage,  however,  the  plainest  imaginable,  con- 
tained no  other  inscription  than  his  arms  and  the  initials 
"J.  G."  Until  within  a  year  or  two  of  his  death,  when  no 
longer  able  to  walk  any  distance,  he  almost  never  made 
use  of  it  —  not  even  on  Sabbath,  for  the  church  of  Colinton 
is  not  above  five  or  ten  minutes'  walk  from  Spylaw.  He, 
notwithstanding,  held  Cameronian  principles,  and  regu- 
larly attended  the  annual  tent-meetings  of  that  body  at 
Rullion  Green. 

By  his  will,  executed  in  1 796,  Mr.  Gillespie  bequeathed 
his  estate,  together  with  £12,000  sterling  (exclusive  of 
^2,'joo,  for  the  purpose  of  building  and  endowing  a 
school),  "for  the  special  intent  and  purpose  of  founding 
and  endowing  an  Hospital,  or  charitable  institution, 
within  the  city  of  Edinburgh,  or  suburbs,  for  the  aliment 
and  maintenance  of  old  men  and  women."  In  1801,  the 
Governors,  on  application  to  His  Majesty,  obtained  a 
charter  erecting  them  into  a  body  politic  and  corporate, 
by  the  name  and  style  of  "The  Governors  of  James 
Gillespie's  Hospital  and  Free  School." 

The  persons  entitled  to  be  admitted  into,  and  maintained 
in  the  Hospital,  are  —  "ist,  Mr.  Gillespie's  old  servants, 
of  whatever  rank  they  may  be.  2nd,  Persons  of  the 
name  of  Gillespie,  fifty-five  years  of  age  and  upwards, 
whatever  part  of  Scotland  they  may  come  from.  3rd, 
38 


The  Country  Gentlemen 

Persons  belonging  to  Edinburgh  and  its  suburbs,  aged 
fifty-five  years  and  upwards.  4th,  Failing  applications 
from  persons  belonging  to  Edinburgh,  and  its  suburbs, 
persons  belonging  to  Leith,  Newhaven,  and  other  parts 
of  the  county  of  Mid-Lothian.  5th,  Failing  applications 
from  all  these  places,  persons  fifty -five  years  of  age,  coming 
from  all  parts  of  Scotland."  It  is  further  provided, 
"That  none  shall  be  admitted  who  are  pensioners,  or  have 
an  allowance  from  any  other  charity.  And  seeing  the 
intention  of  Mr.  Gillespie,  in  founding  the  Hospital,  was 
to  relieve  the  poor,  none  are  to  be  admitted  until  they  shall 
produce  satisfactory  evidence  to  the  Governors  of  their 
indigent  circumstances;  and  the  Governors  are  required 
to  admit  none  but  such  as  are  truly  objects  of  this  charity; 
and  it  is  hereby  ordained  and  appointed,  that  none  but 
decent,  godly,  and  well-behaved  men  and  women  (whatever 
in  other  respects  may  be  their  claims)  shall  be  admitted 
into  the  Hospital;  and  the  number  of  persons  to  be  con- 
stantly entertained,  shall  be  so  many  as  the  revenue  of  the 
Hospital  can  conveniently  maintain,  after  deducting  the 
charge  of  management,  and  of  maintaining  the  fabric, 
and  keeping  up  the  clothing  and  furniture  of  the  house." 

James  Pater  son 


Struan  Robertson      o        <:^        ^;:>        <c>        ^^cr^ 

ANOTHER  Highland  chief  of  the  old  l)rced  has  been 
gathered  to  his  fathers  in  the  midst  of  his  years. 
Struan  Robertson  —  or,  as  he  was  best  known,  Struan, 
not  the  Struan,  the  head  of  the  clan  Donachie,  and  repre- 
sentative of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  the  North,  who 
were  Counts  of  Athole  before  the  Murrays,  and  once  owned 
land  from  the  watershed  of  the  Moor  of  Rannoch  to  within 

39 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

a  mile  of  Perth,  and  were  always  "out"  when  anybody 
was,  —  was  laid  in  his  grave  on  Monday  last,  carried 
shoulder-high  by  his  men  and  the  stout  shepherds  of 
Rannoch,  and  lowered  into  his  rest  by  his  brother-officers 
of  the  Athole  Guard. 

A  more  exquisite  place  is  not  in  all  the  Perthshire  High- 
lands, —  of  which  it  is  the  very  heart,  —  a  little  wooded 
knoll  near  Dunalister,  within  whose  lofty  pines  the  shadow 
of  death  gently  and  for  ever  broods,  even  at  noon,  over 
the  few  graves  of  the  lords  of  the  clan  and  their  kin ;  at  its 
foot  the  wild  Rannoch,  now  asleep,  now  chafing  with  the 
rocks;  and  beyond,  the  noble  Schiehallion,  crowned,  as 
it  was  on  that  day,  with  snow,  and  raked  with  its  own 
pathetic,  shroud-like  mists. 

Though  he  was  but  occasionally  in  Edinburgh,  Struan 
was  better  known  than  many  men  who  never  leave  it; 
and  all  felt  proud  of  watching  the  manly,  athletic,  and 
agile  chief,  with  his  stern  and  powerful  look  as  of  an 
eagle,  — 

The  terror  of  his  beak,  the  lightning  of  his  eye,  — 

and  his  beard  black  as  an  Arab  sheik's,  as  he  strode 
along  Princes  Street  in  his  decorous  kilt  of  hodden  grey, 
—  for  he  detested  the  Cockney  fopperies  and  curt  garments 
of  what  he  called  "Sabbath-day  Hielandmen,"  — as  if 
he  were  on  the  heather  in  his  own  "Black  Wood."  His 
last  act  before  leaving  this  country  for  the  South,  to  die, 
was  to  give  his  thin,  trembling  hand  to  lower  his  Duke 
and  friend  into  the  grave  at  Blair;  and  as  he  came  home 
he  said,  "I'll  be  the  next";  and  so  he  was.  We  may  wait 
long  before  we  see  such  a  pair. 

Struan   was   in   the   Forty-Second  when   young.     Had 
he  remained  in  the  army  he  would  have  made  himself 
40 


The  Country  Gentlemen 

famous.  He  had  a  true  military  instinct,  and  was  pre- 
eminently cool  and  inventive  in  emergencies.  We  remem- 
ber well  his  sudden  appearance  at  the  great  fire  in  Leilh 
Street  some  six-and-twenty  years  ago,  —  as  a  stripling 
in  Highland  ball-dress,  —  with  a  company  of  his  men 
whom  he  had  led  from  the  Castle;  how  he  took,  as  if  by 
right,  the  command  of  every  one,  and  worked  like  Tela- 
monian  Ajax  (who  we  are  sure  was  like  him)  at  the  engines; 
how  the  boys  gloried  in  him,  saying,  "There's  young 
Struan;  he  works  Hke  six!"  and  so  he  did.  He  and  his 
men  got  the  thanks  of  the  Town  Council  next  day.  But 
his  life  was  spent  in  his  own  Rannoch  and  among  his  own 
people,  taking  part  not  only  in  all  their  sports  and  games 
and  strenuous  festivities,  the  life  and  soul  of  them  all,  but 
leading  them  also  in  better  ways,  —  making  roads  and 
building  for  them  schools  and  bridges. 

Like  all  true  sportsmen,  he  was  a  naturalist,  —  studied 
Nature's  ongoings  and  all  her  children  with  a  keen,  un- 
erring, and  loving  eye,  from  her  lichens  and  moths  (for 
which  Rannoch  is  famous)  to  her  eagles,  red  deer,  and 
Salmo  faox;  and  his  stories,  if  recorded,  would  stand 
well  side  by  side  with  Mr.  St.  John's.  One  we  remember. 
He  and  his  keeper  were  on  a  cloudless  day  in  midwinter 
walking  across  the  head  of  Loch  Rannoch,  which,  being 
shallow,  was  frozen  over.  The  keeper  stopped,  and, 
looking  straight  up  into  the  clear  sky,  said  to  his  master, 
"Do  you  see  that?"  Keen  as  he  was,  Struan  said,  "What?" 
".'\n  eagle";  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  a  mere  speck 
in  the  far-off  "azure  depths  of  air."  Duncan  Roy  flung 
a  white  hare  he  had  shot  along  the  ice,  and  instantly  the 
speck  darkened,  and  down  came  the  mighty  creature  willi 
a  swooj),  and  not  knowing  of  the  ice,  was  "made  a  round 
flat  dish  of,  with  the  head  in  the  centre." 
41 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

For  one  thing  Struan  was  remarkable,  even  among 
good  shots:  he  was  the  most  humane  sportsman  we  ever 
saw;  he  never  shot  but  he  hit,  and  he  never  hit  but  he 
killed.  No  temptation  made  him  wound  and  lose  a  bird 
or  deer  as  so  many  do,  —  he  was  literally  a  dead  shot. 
He  used  to  say  that  once  when  a  boy  he  found  a  poor  bird 
lying  in  the  heather;  he  took  it  up,  and  it  died  in  his  hand, 
—  he  knew  he  had  shot  and  lost  it  some  days  before. 
He  said  that  bird's  dying  eye  haunted  him  for  months; 
and  he  made  a  covenant  with  himself  that  never  again 
would  his  hand  cause  such  long  misery. 

We  have  said  he  was  in  the  Forty-Second;  and  his 
house,  "Ranach  Barracks,"  was  the  first  rendezvous  of 
that  renowned  corps,  then  known  as  the  Black  Watch. 

He  was  as  courtly  and  mannerly,  as  gentle  and  full  of 

chivalrous    service,   as    he  was  strong,   peremptory,   and 

hardy;    and  any  one  seeing  him  with  ladies  or  children 

or  old  people  would  agree  with  one-half  of  King  Jamie's 

saying,  "A'  the  'sons"  (men  with  names  ending  in  son 

like  Wilson,  Nicholson,  etc.)  "are  carles'  sons,  but  Struan 

Robertson's  a  gentleman's."     Those  who  knew  and  mourn 

him  can  never  hope  to  see  any  one  like  him  again,  with  his 

abounding  jokes  and  mirth,  and  his  still  more  abounding 

hospitality  and  heart. 

Dr.  John  Brown 

Mr.  James  Edgar       ^c^^       -«CiK       -o       ^i-       ^^i.' 

MR.  EDGAR  had  been  in  his  youth  a  captain  in  the 
Army,  and  had  seen  much  of  foreign  countries. 
Prior  to  his  appointment  as  a  Commissioner,  he  held  the 
situation  of  Collector  of  Customs  at  Leith.  Before  he 
met  the  accident  by  which  he  was  rendered  lame,  though 
rather  hard-featured,  he  was  decidedly  handsome.  He 
42 


The  Country  Gentlemen 

walked  erect,  without  stiffness,  and  with  considerable 
rapidity.  His  enunciation  was  remarkably  distinct,  and 
his  phraseology  correct.  He  was  an  excellent  classical 
scholar;  and,  in  fine,  a  thorough  gentleman  of  the  old 
school.  Although  quite  a  man  of  the  world,  he  possessed 
a  degree  of  practical  philosophy  which  enabled  him  not 
only  to  relish  the  varied  enjoyments  of  life,  but  to  bear  its 
ills  with  tranquillity.  Where  regret  was  unavailing,  he 
frequently  made  jest  of  the  most  serious  disasters.  One 
of  his  limbs  was  shorter  than  the  other,  in  consequence  of 
having  had  his  thigh-bone  broken  at  Leith  races,  by  an 
accident  arising  from  the  carelessness  of  the  postillion. 

" the  fellow!"  said  the  Captain,  "he  has  spoiled  one 

of  the  handsomest  legs  in  Christendom." 

On  his  way  home,  after  the  occurrence,  perceiving  he 
had  to  pass  a  friend  on  the  road,  he  moved  himself  slightly 
forward  in  the  carriage,  at  the  same  time  staring  and 
making  strange  contortions,  as  if  in  the  last  extremity. 
"Ah,  poor  Edgar!"  said  his  friend  to  every  acquaintance 
he  met,  "we  shall  never  see  him  more  —  he  was  just 
expiring  as  I  got  a  peep  into  the  carriage!" 

Mr.  Edgar's  house  was  in  Tiviot  Row,  adjoining  the 
Meadows.  He  spent  a  gay  life  while  in  town ;  associating 
with  the  best  company  and  frequenting  the  public  places, 
particularly  the  concerts  in  Cecilia's  Hall  in  the  Cowgate. 
Before  dinner  he  usually  took  a  few  rounds  at  golf  in  the 
Links,  always  playing  by  himself;  and,  on  fine  evenings, 
he  might  be  seen  seated,  in  full  dress,  in  the  most  crowded 
part  of  the  Meadows,  then  a  fashionable  promenade. 

In  the  summer  months  he  preferred  the  retirement  of 
Pendreich  Cottage  at  Lasswade.  Here  his  amusements 
were  singularly  characteristic;  and  all  his  domestic  ar- 
rangements were  admirably  in  keeping  with  his  peculiari- 

43 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

ties.  His  invariable  practice  in  the  morning,  on  getting 
out  of  bed,  was  to  walk  down,  encumbered  with  little  save 
a  towel,  to  bathe  in  the  river;  after  which  he  returned 
to  his  toilette,  and  then  sat  down  with  a  keen  appetite  to 
breakfast.  Prior  to  his  lameness,  Mr.  Edgar  was  a  devoted 
lover  of  field  sports;  and  with  the  gun  few  sportsmen 
could  bag  as  many  birds.  As  it  was,  he  still  kept  a  few 
dogs;  and,  in  one  of  his  fields,  had  a  target  erected  that 
he  might  enjoy  an  occasional  shot  without  the  fatigue  of 
pursuing  game.  He  had  an  eagle,  too,  which  he  tamed, 
and  took  much  pleasure  in  feeding. 

Among  other  odd  contrivances  about  Pendreich  Cottage 
was  a  barrel  summer-seat,  erected  in  the  garden,  which 
moved  on  a  pivot.  Here  Mr.  Edgar  used  to  sit  frequently, 
for  hours  together,  perusing  the  pages  of  some  favourite 
author,  and  calmly  enjoying  the  rural  sweets  of  a  summer 
evening.  While  thus  employed,  some  of  the  neighbouring 
colliers,  thinking  to  make  game  of  the  Captain,  on  one 
occasion  came  unperceived  behind,  and  began  to  whirl 
him  rapidly  round  and  round,  in  expectation  that  he  would 
sally  forth  and  hobble  after  them;  but  in  this  they  were 
disappointed ;  the  Captain  sat  still  in  perfect  good  humour 
till  they  were  completely  tired,  when  they  went  away, 
very  much  chagrined  at  the  Commissioner's  philosophical 
patience. 

No  inconsiderable  portion  of  the  Commissioner's  time 
was  devoted  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table;  and  he  always 
kept  an  experienced  "man -cook,"  who  had  been  with 
him  while  abroad,  in  order  that  his  viands  might  be  dressed 
on  the  most  approved  principles.  There  was  no  scarcity 
of  the  good  things  of  life  at  Pendreich  Cottage  —  the  very 
trees  in  front  of  the  house  occasionally  groaned  under  the 
weight  of  accumulated  legs  of  mutton,  undergoing  a  process 

44 


The  Country  Gentlemen 

of  curing  peculiar  to  the  establishment.  As  his  fences 
were  much  destroyed  by  nocturnal  depredators  in  their 
anxiety  to  participate  in  this  new  production  of  Pomona, 
the  Commissioner  caused  the  following  Notice  to  be  put 
up:  —  "All  thieves  are  in  future  to  enter  by  the  gate,  which 
will  be  left  open  every  night  for  the  purpose." 

Mr.  Edgar  .  .  .  died  in  1799,  much  regretted,  especially 
about  Lasswade,  where  his  singularities  were  best  known. 

James  Paterson 


45 


IV 

GOOD   SERVANTS 

Rawle       '^i:^       ^si^       -^:i>'       -■Ci'       -Qy       <2y      'Qy 

RAWLE  was  hind  to  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Acland  of 
Killerton.  Sir  Thomas  introduced  Arab  blood 
among  the  Exmoor  ponies,  and  greatly  improved  the 
breed.  About  1810  he  appointed  Rawle  in  charge  of 
these  ponies.  He  was  a  fine  man,  fully  six  feet  high,  and 
big  in  proportion.  His  power  of  breaking  in  the  ponies 
was  extraordinary.  He  was  quite  indifferent  to  falls, 
often  pony  and  man  rolling  over  and  over  each  other. 
The  sale  of  the  ponies  generally  took  place  at  Bampton 
and  at  Taunton  fairs.  The  system  was  this  —  a  herd  of 
the  wild  little  creatures  was  driven  into  the  fair.  Buyers 
attended  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  and  when  a  dealer 
took  a  fancy  to  a  pony,  he  pointed  him  out  to  the  moor- 
man  in  attendance,  who  went  into  the  herd,  seized  upon 
the  selected  one,  and  brought  him  out  by  sheer  strength. 
This  is  no  easy  matter,  for  the  Exmoor  pony  fights  with 
his  fore-feet  in  desperate  fashion.  It  usually  took,  and 
takes,  two  men  to  do  this,  but  Rawle  did  not  require 
assistance,  such  was  his  strength.  Indeed,  so  strong  was 
Rawle  that  he  would  put  a  hand  under  the  feet  of  a  maid- 
servant on  each  side  of  him,  and  raise  himself  and  at  the 
46 


Good  Servants 

same  time  both  of  them,  till  he  was  upright,  and  he  held 
each  woman  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  one  on  each  side  cf 
him,  level  with  his  waist. 

Sir  Thomas  Acland  was  wont,  when  he  had  friends 
with  him,  to  get  the  man  to  make  this  exhibition  of  his 
strength  before  them. 

Sir  Thomas  had  a  hunting-box  at  Higher  Combe  (called 
in  the  district  Yarcombe) ;  he  occupied  one  portion  of 
the  house  when  there,  a  farmer  occupied  the  rest.  It 
was  a  curious  scene  —  a  remnant  of  feudal  times  —  when 
Sir  Thomas  came  there.  His  tenants,  summoned  for  the 
purpose,  had  accompanied  him  in  a  cavalcade  from  Wins- 
ford,  or  Homicott.  John  Rawle  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  eat  a  bite  or  take  a  draught  when  his  master 
was  in  a  house;  he  planted  himself  as  a  sentry  upright 
before  the  door  when  Sir  Thomas  went  in  to  refresh  him- 
self anywhere,  and  nothing  could  withdraw  him  from  his 
post. 

One  day  Sir  Thomas  said  to  Rawle,  "Rawle,  I  want 
to  send  a  gelding  and  a  mare  in  foal  to  Duke  Ludwig  of 
Baden,  at  Baden-Baden.     Can  you  take  them?" 

"Certainly,  Sir  Thomas." 

The  man  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  of  course 
knew  no  other  language  than  the  broadest  Exmoor  dialect 
—  and  this  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  century,  when  there 
were  not  the  facilities  for  travelling  that  there  are  now. 
He  started  for  Baden-Baden,  and  took  his  charges  there 
in  safety,  and  delivered  them  over  to  the  Grand  Duke. 
He  had,  however,  an  added  difficulty,  in  that  the  mare 
foaled  en  route,  and  he  had  a  pass  for  two  ponies  only. 

S.  Baring-Gould 


47 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 
Tom  Sebright       '=;>      ^^ix      <:>       -<c:y       -^:v,       ^^:^ 

"  TF,"  says  the  Druid,  "Tom  Sebright  was  showing 
■*-  one  of  his  hounds,  which  he  thought  a  httle  out  of 
the  common  way,  he  would  indicate  his  dehght  by  thrust- 
ing his  hands  deep  into  his  breeches  pocket  and  kicking 
out  his  little  right  leg.  He  would  then  draw  his  hand 
over  the  hound  from  the  head  to  the  stern,  and  remark, 
in  his  gentle  tone,  that  'it  couldn't  be  more  beautiful  if 
it  had  been  spoke -shaved.'  " 

That  Tom  was  going  to  understand  hounds  as  Shake- 
speare understood  women  was  evident  from  the  first; 
but  some  years  had  to  pass  before  he  could  come  to  his 
own  pack  and  settle  down  to  be  its  father  and  mother. 
He  began  under  the  great  Jack  Musters  at  Annesley,  and 
then  he  went  on  to  Sir  Mark  Sykes  and  Mr.  Digby  Legard, 
who  were  running  the  North  Riding  Hounds.  It  was 
while  he  was  there  that  his  good  fairy  intervened ;  for  one 
day  a  young  gentleman  named  George  Osbaldeston,  two 
years  older  than  Tom,  came  to  the  kennels  to  arrange  for 
some  drafts  with  which  to  strengthen  and  vary  the  Monson 
pack,  which  he  had  just  bought,  and  Mr.  Legard  remarked, 
"You  may  as  well  take  the  Whip  as  well;  we've  tried  him 
three  seasons,  and  he  kills  all  our  horses."  Mr.  Osbaldes- 
ton, who  was  all  fire  himself,  instantly  agreed,  and  Tom 
went  back  to  Leicestershire  in  the  employ  of  one  who  was 
later  to  be  Master  both  of  the  Quorn  and  the  Pytchley, 
and  was  one  day  to  receive  a  cup  from  the  flower  of  English 
hunting  men,  engraved  with  the  words,  "To  the  best 
sportsman  of  any  age  or  country." 

Tom  loved  his  hounds  with  a  love  that  must  have  made 
their  Creator  smile  with  satisfaction.  Every  year's  puppies 


Good  Servants 

were  perhaps  "just  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  had."  But 
his  favourite  in  all  his  career  was  perhaps  Mr.  Osbaldeston's 
Tarquin,  "most  unerring  and  melodious  of  finders,"  says 
the  Druid  —  Tarquin,  the  son  of  Trickster  and  the  Belvoir 
Topper.  (What  a  life  !)  Tarquin  had  a  surly  temper  and 
never  liked  Mr.  Osbaldeston,  but  he  did  wonders  in  the 
chase.  It  was  in  a  fine  run  from  Wragley  Woods  towards 
Market  Rasen  that  he  suddenly  came  out,  like  a  shot,  from 
the  pack,  and  rolled  his  fox  over  single-handed.  (These 
are  the  Druid's  brave  words.)  Tarquin  did  great  work  for 
six  seasons.  When  he  came  to  die,  Tom  buried  him  in  the 
path  from  the  huntsmen's  house  at  Quorn  to  the  kennels, 
beneath  a  slab  for  which  he  himself  composed  the  elegiac 
verse.     It  was  Tom  Sebright's  first  and  last  poem: 

'Tis  here  my  favourite  Tarquin  lies, 
Turn  away,  sportsmen,  and  wipe  your  eyes; 
Not  the  only  favourite  in  the  pack, 
But  Tarquin  never  in  work  was  slack. 

Another  favourite  and  famous  hound  bred  by  Tom 
Sebright  was  Furrier  (by  the  Belvoir  Saladin),  who  may 
have  begun  in  a  disappointing  way,  but  suddenly,  in  a 
February  run,  "came  with  Heedless  well  out  of  the  ruck 
and,  leading  the  pack  by  ten  yards,  neck  and  neck  over 
Garthorpe  Lings,  brought  that  renowned  fox,  'Perpetual 
Motion,'  to  book  at  last!"  Furrier  became  the  parent 
of  some  wonderful  hounds,  one  descendant  being  the 
famous  Dashwood.  "They  don't  fly  like  pigeons,"  Mr. 
Osbaldeston  used  to  say:   "they  fly  like  angels." 

Tom  remained  with  Mr.  Osbaldeston  —  "The  Squire," 

as  he  was  called  —  till  1821,  when  he  left  Quorn  to  become 

huntsman  of  the  Fitzwilliam  Hunt  at  Milton,  and  he  held 

the  post  for  forty  years.     But  though  it  is  with  the  Fitz- 

E  49 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

William  that  his  name  is  most  closely  associated,  it  was 
"The  Squire"  who  made  Tom  what  he  was  and  set  his 
feet  absolutely  in  the  right  way.  To  have  been  such  a 
man's  right  hand  was  training  indeed;  for  "The  Squire" 
excelled  at  all  he  attempted,  and  his  excellence  was  of  the 
vivid,  burning  character  that  inspires  and  lifts.  It  was  he 
who,  in  1831,  performed  for  a  wager  of  a  thousand  guineas 
the  amazing  feat  of  riding  two  hundred  miles  in  eight  hours 
fifty-two  minutes.     He  stood  in  the  stirrups  all  the  way. 

Tom's  language  to  the  field  was  remarkably  courteous 
and  guarded  even  under  deep  provocation.  He  rarely 
said  more  than  "Odd  rabbit  it  altogether ! "  or  "Rags  and 
garters!"  This  is  a  triumph  of  character  in  one  set,  as 
a  whip  or  huntsman  is,  between  two  such  sources  of  irrita- 
tion as  a  pack  of  restless  hounds  and  a  pack  of  impatient 
gentlemen.  Of  Mr.  Osbaldeston  less  mastery  of  the  tongue 
is  recorded.  In  fact,  he  fulfilled  most  of  the  requirements 
of  the  conventional  M.F.H.,  save  that  he  also  had  genius. 
His  temper  was  out  of  control  as  often  as  not,  except  on  the 
great  occasions  of  his  life,  and  then  he  managed  to  keep 
it  well. 

I  wish  I  could  give  a  reproduction  of  Tom's  thick,  short 
figure,  and  his  benevolent,  shrewd,  and  plump  face,  clean 
shaved  except  for  a  little  tuft  of  hair  on  each  cheek,  his 
two  or  three  chins,  and  his  whip  of  office  in  his  hand. 
He  lived  to  be  seventy-two,  and  no  man  was  more  respected 
or  loved.  He  had  his  little  odd  ways,  and  could  be  testy 
and  sharp,  but  his  heart  was  gold.  Never  could  a  present 
have  been  subscribed  for  with  more  cordiality  and  pleasure 
than  the  cup  containing  eight  hundred  guineas,  which 
was  handed  to  him  by  the  Duke  of  Manchester  in  the 
Huntingdon  Town  Hall,  in  i860:  the  "pleasantest  meet," 
said  Tom,  that  he  ever  attended. 
50 


Good  Servants 

With  all  their  kindliness,  these  are  not  the  least  sad 
occasions  in  life,  these  farewell  ceremonies  at  which  old 
huntsmen  and  cricketers  and  other  fine,  open-air  characters 
take  leave  of  activity.  It  is  bad  enough  when  a  towns- 
man has  to  retire  and  confess  that  Anno  Domini  has  con- 
quered, but  it  is  worse  when  a  Tom  Sebright,  whose  life 
has  been  spent  in  the  saddle  and  among  his  hounds,  in 
all  the  eagerness  and  excitement  of  the  chase  —  riding 
out  into  the  keen  morning  air,  amid  the  pungent  scent  of 
fallen  leaves,  urging  on  his  pack  and  glorying  in  their 
glory  —  takes  finally  to  the  arm-chair.  It  is  almost  un- 
bearable to  think  that  to  such  a  one  as  this  inactivity  and 
illness  must  come. 

Tom  died  on  a  sunny  afternoon  in  1861.  Just  before 
the  end  he  began  to  wander  and  thought  his  hounds  were 
in  the  room.  "Don't  you  see  them?"  he  said  to  his 
daughter.  "They're  all  round  the  bed.  There's  old 
Bluecap,  and  Shiner,  and  Bonny  Lass  wagging  her  stern." 
A  good  way  to  die,  so  surrounded. 

E.  V.  L. 

Robert  <2y        ^::>        ^^^i^        ^^^^       -vi^       ^=:>       ^^^ 

THE  first  time  that  I  saw  him,  I  fancy  Robert  was  pretty 
old  already:  he  had  certainly  begun  to  use  his  years 
as  a  stalking  horse.  Latterly  he  was  beyond  all  the  im- 
pudencies  of  logic,  considering  a  reference  to  the  parish 
register  worth  all  the  reasons  in  the  world.  "/  am  old 
and  well-stricken  in  years"  he  was  wont  to  say;  and  I 
never  found  any  one  bold  enough  to  answer  the  argument. 
Apart  from  this  vantage  that  he  kept  over  all  who  were 
not  yet  octogenarian,  he  had  some  other  drawbacks  as 
a  gardener.     He  shrank   the   very   place   he   cultivated. 

SI 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

The  dignity  and  reduced  gentility  of  his  appearance  made 
the  small  garden  cut  a  sorry  figure.  He  was  full  of  tales 
of  greater  situations  in  his  younger  days.  He  spoke  of 
castle  and  parks  with  a  humbling  familiarity.  He  told 
of  places  where  under-gardeners  had  trembled  at  his  looks, 
where  there  were  meres  and  swanneries,  labyrinths  of  walk 
and  wildernesses  of  sad  shrubbery  in  his  control,  till  you 
could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was  condescension  on  his  part 
to  dress  your  humbler  garden  plots.  You  were  thrown 
at  once  into  an  invidious  position.  You  felt  that  you  were 
profiting  by  the  needs  of  dignity,  and  that  his  poverty  and 
not  his  will  consented  to  your  vulgar  rule.  Involuntarily 
you  compared  yourself  with  the  swineherd  that  made 
Alfred  watch  his  cakes,  or  some  bloated  citizen  who  may 
have  given  his  sons  and  his  condescension  to  the  fallen 
Dionysius. 

Nor  were  the  disagreeables  purely  fanciful  and  meta- 
physical, for  the  sway  that  he  exercised  over  your  feelings 
he  extended  to  your  garden,  and,  through  the  garden, 
to  your  diet.  He  would  trim  a  hedge,  throw  away  a 
favourite  plant,  or  fill  the  most  favoured  and  fertile  section 
of  the  garden  with  a  vegetable  that  none  of  us  could  eat, 
in  supreme  contempt  of  our  opinion.  If  you  asked  him 
to  send  you  in  one  of  your  own  artichokes,  "That  I  wull, 
mem,"  he  would  say,  "with  pleasure,  for  it  is  mair  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive."  Ay,  and  even  when,  by  extra 
twisting  of  the  screw,  we  prevailed  on  him  to  prefer  our 
commands  to  his  own  inclination,  and  he  went  away, 
stately  and  sad,  professing  that  "our  wull  was  his  pleasure," 
but  yet  reminding  us  that  he  would  do  it  "with  feelin's," 
—  even  then,  I  say,  the  triumphant  master  felt  humbled 
in  his  triumph,  felt  that  he  ruled  on  sufferance  only,  that 
he  was  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  the  other's  low  estate, 
52 


Good  Servants 

and  that  the  whole  scene  had  been  one  of  those  "slights 
that  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes." 

In  flowers  his  taste  was  old-fashioned  and  catholic; 
afiFecting  sunflowers  and  dahlias,  wallflowers  and  roses, 
and  holding  in  supreme  aversion  whatsoever  was  fan- 
tastic, new-fashioned,  or  wild.  There  was  one  exception 
to  this  sweeping  ban.  Foxgloves,  though  undoubtedly 
guilty  on  the  last  count,  he  not  only  spared,  but  loved; 
and  when  the  shrubbery  was  being  thinned,  he  stayed 
his  hand  and  dexterously  manipulated  his  bill  in  order  to 
save  every  stately  stem.  In  boyhood,  as  he  told  me  once, 
speaking  in  that  tone  that  only  actors  and  the  old-fashioned 
common  folk  can  use  nowadays,  his  heart  grew  ''proud" 
within  him  when  he  came  on  a  burn-course  among  the 
braes  of  Manor  that  shone  purple  with  their  graceful 
trophies;  and  not  all  his  apprenticeship  and  practice  for 
so  many  years  of  precise  gardening  had  banished  these 
boyish  recollections  from  his  heart.  Indeed,  he  was  a 
man  keenly  alive  to  the  beauty  of  all  that  was  bygone. 
He  abounded  in  old  stories  of  his  boyhood,  and  kept  pious 
account  of  all  his  former  pleasures;  and  when  he  went 
(on  a  holiday)  to  visit  one  of  the  fabled  great  places  of 
the  earth  where  he  had  served  before,  he  came  back  full 
of  pre-Raphaelite  reminiscences  that  showed  real  passion 
for  the  past,  such  as  might  have  shaken  hands  with  Hazlitt 
or  Jean -Jacques. 

But  however  his  s\Tnpathy  with  his  old  feelings  might 
affect  his  liking  for  the  foxgloves,  the  very  truth  was  that 
he  scorned  all  flowers  together.  They  were  but  garnish- 
ings,  childish  toys,  trifling  ornaments  for  ladies'  chimney- 
shelves.  It  was  towards  his  cauliflowers  and  peas  and 
cabbage  that  his  heart  grew  warm.  His  preference  for 
the  more  useful   growths  was   such  that  cabbages  were 

53 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

found  invading  the  flower-pots,  and  an  outpost  of  savoys 
was  once  discovered  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn.  He  would 
prelect  over  some  thriving  plant  with  wonderful  enthusiasm, 
piling  reminiscence  on  reminiscence  of  former  and  perhaps 
yet  finer  specimens.  Yet  even  then  he  did  not  let  the 
credit  leave  himself.  He  had,  indeed,  raised  ^^ finer  o' 
them" ;  but  it  seemed  that  no  one  else  had  been  favoured 
with  a  like  success.  All  other  gardeners,  in  fact,  were 
mere  foils  to  his  own  superior  attainments;  and  he  would 
recount,  with  perfect  soberness  of  voice  and  visage,  how 
so  and  so  had  wondered,  and  such  another  could  scarcely 
give  credit  to  his  eyes.  Nor  was  it  with  his  rivals  only 
that  he  parted  praise  and  blame. 

If  you  remarked  how  well  a  plant  was  looking,  he  would 
gravely  touch  his  hat  and  thank  you  with  solemn  unction; 
all  credit  in  the  matter  falling  to  him.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  called  his  attention  to  some  back-going  vegetable, 
he  would  quote  Scripture:  "Paul  may  plant  and  Apollos 
may  water '^ ;  all  blame  being  left  to  Providence,  on  the 
score  of  deficient  rain  or  untimely  frosts. 

There  was  one  thing  in  the  garden  that  shared  his 
preference  with  his  favourite  cabbages  and  rhubarb,  and 
that  other  was  the  beehive.  Their  sound,  their  industry, 
perhaps  their  sweet  product  also,  had  taken  hold  of  his 
imagination  and  heart,  whether  by  way  of  memory  or  no  I 
cannot  say,  although  perhaps  the  bees  too  were  linked  to 
him  by  some  recollection  of  Manor  braes  and  his  country 
childhood.  Nevertheless,  he  was  too  chary  of  his  personal 
safety,  or  (let  me  rather  say)  his  personal  dignity,  to  mingle 
in  any  active  ofiice  towards  them.  But  he  could  stand 
by  while  one  of  the  contemned  rivals  did  the  work  for  him, 
and  protest  that  it  was  quite  safe,  in  spite  of  his  own  con- 
siderate distance  and  the  cries  of  the  distressed  assistant. 

54 


Good  Servants 

In  regard  to  bees,  he  was  rather  a  man  of  word  than  deed, 
and  some  of  his  most  striking  sentences  had  the  bees  for 
text.  "They  are  indeed  wonderfu'  creatures,  mem,"  he 
said  once.  "They  just  mind  me  o'  what  the  Queen  r/ 
Sheba  said  to  Solomon  —  and  I  think  she  said  it  wi'  a  sigh, 
—  '  The  half  of  it  hath  not  been  told  unto  me.'" 

As  far  as  the  Bible  goes,  he  was  deeply  read.  Like  the 
old  Covenanters,  of  whom  he  was  the  worthy  representr,- 
tive,  his  mouth  was  full  of  sacred  quotations  ;  it  was  the 
book  that  he  had  studied  most  and  thought  upon  most 
deeply.  To  many  people  in  his  station  the  Bible,  and 
perhaps  Bums,  are  the  only  books  of  any  vital  literary 
merit  that  they  read,  feeding  themselves,  for  the  rest, 
on  the  draff  of  country  newspapers,  and  the  very  instructive 
but  not  very  palatable  pabulum  of  some  cheap  educational 
series. 

This  was  Robert's  position.  All  day  long  he  had  dreamed 
of  the  Hebrew  stories,  and  his  head  had  been  full  of  Hebrew 
poetry  and  Gospel  ethics  ;  until  they  had  struck  deep  root 
into  his  heart,  and  the  very  expressions  had  become  a  part 
of  him;  so  that  he  rarely  spoke  without  some  antique 
idiom  or  Scripture  mannerism  that  gave  a  racincss  to  the 
merest  trivialities  of  talk.  But  the  influence  of  the  Bible 
did  not  stop  here.  There  was  more  in  Robert  than  quaint 
phrase  and  ready  store  of  reference.  He  was  imbued 
with  a  spirit  of  peace  and  love:  he  interposed  between  man 
and  wife  :  he  threw  himself  between  the  angry,  touching 
his  hat  the  while  with  all  the  ceremony  of  an  usher  :  he 
protected  the  birds  from  everybody  but  himself,  seeing, 
I  suppose,  a  great  difference  between  official  execution 
and  wanton  sport.  His  mistress  telling  him  one  day  to 
put  some  ferns  into  his  master's  particular  corner,  and 
adding,    "Though,    indeed,    Robert,    he    doesn't    deserve 

55 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

them,  for  he  wouldn't  help  me  to  gather  them."  "Eh, 
mem,'"  replies  Robert,  '''but  I  wouldnae  say  that,  for  I 
think  he's  just  a  most  descrvin''  gentleman." 

Again,  two  of  our  friends,  who  were  on  intimate  terms, 
and  accustomed  to  use  language  to  each  other  somewhat 
without  the  bounds  of  the  parliamentary,  happened  to 
differ  about  the  position  of  a  seat  in  the  garden.  The 
discussion,  as  was  usual  when  these  two  were  at  it,  soon 
waxed  tolerably  insulting  on  both  sides.  Every  one 
accustomed  to  such  controversies  several  times  a  day  was 
quietly  enjoying  this  prize-fight  of  somewhat  abusive  wit 
—  every  one  but  Robert,  to  whom  the  perfect  good  faith 
of  the  whole  quarrel  seemed  unquestionable,  and  who, 
after  having  waited  till  his  conscience  would  suffer  him  to 
wait  no  more,  and  till  he  expected  every  moment  that  the 
disputants  would  fall  to  blows,  cut  suddenly  in  with  tones 
of  almost  tearful  entreaty:  "Eh,  but,  gentlemen,  I  wad 
hae  nae  mair  words  about  it!" 

One  thing  was  noticeable  about  Robert's  religion :  it  was 
neither  dogmatic  nor  sectarian.  He  never  expatiated  (at 
'east,  in  my  hearing)  on  the  doctrines  of  his  creed,  and  he 
never  condemned  anybody  else.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
held  all  Roman  Catholics,  Atheists,  and  Mahometans  as 
considerably  out  of  it ;  I  don't  believe  he  had  any  sympathy 
for  Prelacy;  and  the  natural  feelings  of  man  must  have 
made  him  a  little  sore  about  Free-Churchism ;  but  at  least, 
he  never  talked  about  these  views,  never  grew  controver- 
sially noisy,  and  never  openly  aspersed  the  belief  or  practice 
of  anybody.  Now  all  this  is  not  generally  characteristic 
of  Scotch  piety;  Scotch  sects  being  churches  militant  with 
a  vengeance,  and  Scotch  believers  perpetual  crusaders  the 
one  against  the  other,  and  missionaries  the  one  to  the  other. 
Perhaps  Robert's  originally  tender  heart  was  what  made 
56 


Good   Servants 

the  difference;  or,  perhaps,  his  solitary  and  pleasant  labour 
among  fruits  and  flowers  had  taught  him  a  more  sunshiny 
creed  than  those  whose  work  is  among  the  tares  of  fallen 
humanity;  and  the  soft  influences  of  the  garden  had 
entered  deep  into  his  spirit. 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

But  I  could  go  on  for  ever  chronicling  his  golden  say- 
ings or  telling  of  his  innocent  and  living  piety.  I  had 
meant  to  tell  of  his  cottage,  with  the  German  pipe  hung 
reverently  above  the  fire,  and  the  shell  box  that  he  had 
made  for  his  son,  and  of  which  he  would  say  pathetically: 
"//e  was  real  pleased  wi'  it  at  first,  but  I  think  he's  got  a 
kind  o'  tired  o'  it  now"  —  the  son  being  then  a  man  of  about 
forty.  But  I  will  let  all  these  pass,  "  'Tis  more  significant : 
he's  dead."  The  earth,  that  he  had  digged  so  much  in 
his  life,  was  dug  out  by  another  for  himself;  and  the 
flowers  that  he  had  tended  drew  their  life  still  from  him, 
but  in  a  new  and  nearer  way.  A  bird  flew  about  the  open 
grave,  as  if  it  too  wished  to  honour  the  obsequies  of  one 
who  had  so  often  quoted  Scripture  in  favour  of  its  kind: 
"Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  one  farthing,  and  yet  not 
one  of  them  falleth  to  the  ground." 

Yes,  he  is  dead.  But  the  kings  did  not  rise  in  the  place 
of  death  to  greet  him  "with  taunting  proverbs"  as  they 
rose  to  greet  the  haughty  Baljylonian;  for  in  his  life  he 
was  lowly,  and  a  peacemaker  and  a  servant  of  God. 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


57 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

William  Hinton         •<:i^        ^o        ^Cy        ^^ii'        •'^^ 

WILLIAM  HINTON  was  Mr.  Julius  Young's  clerk 
at  Boston,  in  Wiltshire,  in  the  thirties  and  forties 
of  the  last  century.  During  the  week  he  was  the  school- 
master, and  when  he  saw  the  first  railway  engine  he  ex- 
claimed, in  horror  and  dismay,  "How  much  longer  shall 
knowledge  be  allowed  to  go  on  increasing?"  It  would 
be  a  good  question  in  an  examination  to  ask  what  he  would 
have  said  about  Bleriot.  Hinton  was  a  tall,  pompous 
man,  of  great  simplicity  of  heart  and  complexity  of  language. 
Once  on  losing  his  queen  in  a  game  of  chess,  he  begged 
that  he  might  be  permitted  to  stop,  since  "chess  without 
the  queen  is  like  life  without  the  female."  His  attitude 
to  females  was  consistently  one  of  respect  and  awe  and 
wonder.  He  held  them  —  at  least,  those  of  a  station 
superior  to  his  own  —  not  only  sacred,  but  mystical.  He 
once  asked  Mr.  Young  to  describe  the  costume  of  ladies 
at  an  evening  party,  and  on  hearing  of  their  low  dress 
exclaimed,  "Then  methinks,  sir,  there  must  be  revelations 
of  much  which  modesty  would  gladly  veil."  He  once  had 
an  opportunity  of  meeting  some  ladies  in  this  guise  — 
a  mother  and  two  daughters  —  the  encounter  happening 
just  after  he  had  first  learned,  to  his  horror,  that  many 
babies  born  in  high  circles  are  brought  up  by  hand  or  by 
foster-mothers.  This  had  set  him  thinking  furiously, 
and  on  the  occasion  named  all  his  natural  inquisitiveness, 
propriety,  and  chivalry  were  at  war.  The  Rev.  Julius 
shall  tell  the  rest:  "The  ladies  were  dressed,  as  any 
other  gentlewomen  of  their  station  would  be,  in  low  gowns. 
When  first  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  was  formally 
presented  to  them,  the,  to  him,  unaccustomed  display 
of  neck  and  shoulders  quite  overcame  him.  He  bridled 
58 


Good  Servants 

and  sidled,  and  coloured,  and  turned  his  head,  first  on  one 
side  and  then  on  the  other,  profoundly  abashed  by  the 
consciousness  of  being  in  the  room  with  a  mother  and  two 
daughters,  who  were  exposing  more  of  their  charms  than 
he  had  ever  seen  before.  It  was  in  vain,  for  some  time, 
that  I  tried  to  draw  him  into  general  conversation.  He 
was  fairly  dumbfoundered.  The  primmest  of  Roman 
CathoHc  priests  could  not  have  maintained  the  custody 
of  the  eyes  more  rigorously.  I  strongly  suspect  he  was 
wresting  with  his  conscience,  as  to  the  propriety  of  coun- 
tenancing by  his  presence  such  bare-shouldered  disclosures. 
After  a  while,  however,  consideration  for  my  wife  seemed 
to  outweigh  his  disapproval  of  a  depraved  conventionality; 
he  conquered  his  shjTiess,  and,  mentally  reverting  to  what 
he  had  learned  from  me  the  night  before,  on  the  subject 
of  nursing,  he  screwed  his  courage  to  the  sticking-place, 
roused  himself  from  his  maidenly  squeamishness,  and, 
turning  to  the  mother,  thus  addressed  her:  'Pray,  madam, 
allow  me  to  ask  you,  as  one  moving  in  high  circles,  a  ques- 
tion. Am  I  to  understand  that,  from  you,  their  legitimate 
nurse,  these  young  ladies  really  never  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  the  breast?  " 

Two  of  William  Hinton's  letters  are  given  as  specimens 
of  his  flowery  yet  dignified  manner.  This  was  to  Mrs. 
Young  to  thank  her  for  a  little  present  brought  from 
abroad :  — 

"  Januarius  Prima,  1840 

"Charus  Domna,  —  That  the  humble  Sacrista  should 
be  still  retained  on  the  tablets  of  your  memory,  is  an  un- 
expected pleasure.  Your  gift,  as  a  criterion  of  your 
esteem,  will  be  often  looked  at  with  delight,  and  be  care- 
fully preserved  as  a  memorial  of  your  friendshij),  and  for 
which    I    beg    to    return    my   sincere    thanks.     May    the 

59 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

meridian  sunshine  of  happiness  brighten  your  days  through 
the  voyage  of  this  Hfe,  and  may  your  soul  be  borne  on  the 
wings  of  seraphic  angels  to  the  realms  of  bliss  eternal  in 
the  world  to  come,  is  the  sincere  wish  and  fervent  prayer 
of,  Charus  Domina,  your  most  obedient,  most  respectful, 
most  obliged  servant, 

"  GULIELMUS    HiNTONIENSIS 

"RusTicus  Sacrista" 

In  the  following  note  he  reminded  his  vicar  of  a  forth- 
coming marriage :  — 

"Rev.  Sir,  —  I  hope  it  has  not  escaped  your  memory 
that  the  young  couple  at  Blithwick  are  hoping  to  offer 
incense  at  the  shrine  of  Venus  this  morning,  at  the  hour 
of  ten.     I  anticipate  the  bridegroom's  anxiety. 

"RusTicus  Sacrista" 

William  Hinton  also  dropped  into  verse,  and  "rarely  gave 
notice  of  a  funeral  except  in  doggerel." 

The  sacristan's  own  death  was  bravely  encountered 
and  borne.  Mr.  Young  went  to  see  him  towards  the  end, 
and  thus  records  his  words:  —  "'Well,  reverend  and  dear 
sir;  here  we  are,  you  see,  come  to  the  nightcap  scene  at 
last!  Doubtless  you  can  discern  that  I  am  dying.  I 
am  not  afraid  to  die.  I  wish  your  prayers.'  After  some 
time  he  repeated  the  words,  'I  say,  I  am  not  afraid  to 
die,  and  you  know  why.  Because  I  know  in  Whom  I 
have  believed;  and  I  am  persuaded  that  He  is  able  to 
keep  that  which  I  have  committed  unto  Him  against  that 
day.' 

"As  I  was  about  to  leave  him,"  his  vicar  adds,  "after 
ministering  to  him,  he  exclaimed,  in  his  characteristic 
tone  and  manner,  'Thanks,  reverend  sir!  Thanks  for 
60 


Good  Servants 

much  goodwill !  Thanks  for  much  happy  intercourse ! 
For  nearly  seven  j-ears  we  have  been  friends  here.  I  trust 
we  shall  be  still  better  friends  hereafter.  I  shall  not  see 
you  again  on  this  side  of  Jordan !  I  fear  not  to  cross 
over !  Good-bye !  My  Joshua  beckons  me !  The  prom- 
ised land's  in  sight.'" 

E.  V.  L. 


6i 


V 

TWO   CRICKETERS 

Alfred  Mynn     <:>       -Oy       -si,.       ^^^y       'O       -s:> 


TV /TR.  MYNN  was  without  doubt  the  most  popular 
^^^  cricketer  of  his  day.  When  I  played  with  him  tow- 
ards the  end  of  his  career  he  was  always  the  centre  of 
attraction  on  every  cricket  field,  and  the  spectators  would 
crowd  about  him  when  he  walked  round  the  ground,  like 
flies  round  a  honey-pot.  His  immense  popularity  threw 
even  the  superior  abilities  of  Pilch  and  Parr  into  the  shade. 
He  was  beloved  by  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and 
he  in  return  seemed  to  think  kindly  of  every  one.  He  had 
an  affectionate  regard  for  his  old  fellow-players  who  had 
fought  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him  through  his  brilliant 
career,  and  there  are  many  players  who  were  just  becom- 
ing known  to  him  in  his  latter  days  who  could  bear  witness 
to  the  kindness  and  encouragement  he  showed  to  them. 
As  a  bowler  he  was  very  fast,  with  a  most  stately  delivery, 
bowling  level  with  his  shoulder.  As  a  batsman  he  was 
a  fine  powerful  hitter.  He  played  a  driving  game,  setting 
himself  for  this  and  not  cutting  much.  Against  fast  bowl- 
ing he  was  magnificent,  and  against  slow  of  an  inferior 
62 


Two  Cricketers 

quality  he  was  a  great  punisher.  Against  the  best  slow 
bowling  of  the  day  he  did  not  show  to  so  much  advantage. 
He  had  not  that  variety  of  play  which  enables  a  batsman 
to  deal  with  this  sort  of  bowling  to  the  best  advantage.  His 
pluck  and  gameness  were  something  wonderful,  and  were 
shown  in  every  department  of  the  game. 

He  had  an  iron  constitution  which  nothing  seemed  to 
upset.  He  liked  good  living,  and  seemed  especially  to 
enjoy  his  supper.  I  have  often  seen  him  eat  a  hearty 
supper  of  cold  pork  and  retire  to  bed  almost  directly 
afterwards  I 

A  curious  custom  of  his  was  taking  a  tankard  of  light 
bitter  beer  to  bed  with  him  during  the  night.  "My  boy," 
he  once  said  to  me  when  he  saw  me  taking  a  cup  of  tea, 
"beef  and  beer  are  the  things  to  play  cricket  on !" 

William  Caffyn 


II 

A  LFRED  MYNN  came  of  a  race  of  Kentish  giants^ 
■^*-  and  was  a  giant  himself.  He  weighed  in  his  active 
prime  nineteen  stone,  and  towards  the  end  twenty-four, 
and  was  over  si.x  feet  in  his  stockings.  The  portraits  of 
him  are  like  those  of  a  prize  man  at  the  Agricultural  Hall. 
In  one  of  them  he  stands  flannelled  and  bareheaded  on 
a  village  green,  with  a  church  —  perhaps  his  own  Goud- 
hurst  —  behind  him,  a  belt  round  his  equator,  a  ridiculous 
little  toothpick  of  a  bat  on  his  colossal  shoulder,  and  a 
cjuiet  smile  (as  of  one  who  expected  half-volleys  later  in 
the  day,  and  would  know  what  to  do  with  them  when  they 
arrived)  on  his  vast  and  kindly  yeoman's  face. 

Nominally  he  was  a  hop  merchant;   but  the  great  game 
was  too  much  for  him,  anrl  he  allowed  his  hops  to  fend 
63 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

for  themselves  while  he  lifted  their  county  to  the  highest 
place  in  cricket.  (What  are  hops  after  all?)  Like  Atlas 
he  carried  Kent  on  his  shoulders. 

For  twenty  years  he  was  the  mainstay  of  the  Gentle- 
men against  the  Players ;  and  a  great  match  in  the  thirties 
and  forties  without  A.  Mynn,  Esq.,  in  the  score-sheet  was 
less  to  be  thought  of  than  Hamlet  without  the  Prince. 

He  bowled  faster  than  any  man  in  England,  except, 
perhaps.  Brown,  of  Brighton  (who  once  bowled  a  ball  right 
through  a  coat  which  long-stop  was  holding,  and  killed 
a  dog  on  the  other  side),  and  he  never  tired.  He  "walked 
a  few  paces  up  to  the  wicket  and  delivered  the  ball  like 
a  flash  of  lightning,  seemingly  without  effort."  When 
he  went  in  to  bat  he  hit  hard  and  he  hit  often,  as  great 
simple  souls  do.  He  preferred  fast  bowling  to  slow, 
which  is  another  sign  of  a  lack  of  guile.  In  1836  he  made 
283  runs  in  four  consecutive  innings,  being  twice  not  out. 
To-day  we  think  little  of  this;  but  in  1836  it  was  almost 
miraculous,  and  I,  for  one,  wish  it  was  still. 

Alfred  Mynn's  most  famous  single  wicket  match  was 
with  J.  Dearman,  of  Sheffield,  on  Pilch's  ground,  at  Town 
Mailing,  for  ;i^ioo  a  side.  It  was  played  on  August  20, 
1838.  Frederick  Gale  was  present,  and  he  has  left  a 
description  in  his  Echoes  from  Old  Cricket  Fields.  "A 
great  portion  of  Mr.  Mynn's  runs,"  he  says,  "were  got 
by  cover-point  hits,  though  he  lifted  two  balls  apparently 
into  some  adjoining  county.  He  scored  in  two  innings 
123  runs;  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  all  Dearman's  runs,  eleven 
in  number,  were  cover-point  hits.  There  were  only  three 
wides  in  the  four  innings.  Dearman  was  a  little  man,  and 
Alfred  Mynn  looked  a  giant  beside  him.  I  can  see  him 
now  in  close-fitting  jersey  bound  with  red  ribbon,  a  red 
belt  round  his  waist,  and  a  straw  hat,  with  broad  red  ribbon. 
64 


Two  Cricketers 

Dearman,  who  had  never  been  beaten,  and  was  heavily 
backed  by  the  Yorkshiremen,  had  not  the  smallest  chance 
with  his  opponent,  and  I  verily  believe  that  Alfred  MjTin, 
out  of  sheer  kindness  of  heart,  gave  him  a  few  off  balls  in 
the  second  innings,  as  Dearman  was  120  to  the  bad. 
The  little  man  made  some  beautiful  off-hits  before  the 
boundary  stump,  and  was  much  cheered;  but  when  it 
got  near  six  o'clock  shouts  of  'Time's  short,  Alfred,  finish 
him  off,'  were  heard  from  the  throats  of  the  lusty  Kentish 
yeomen,  and  I  have  a  vision  in  my  mind  of  a  middle  stump 
flying  up  in  the  air,  and  spinning  like  a  wheel,  and  perhaps 
if  any  one  will  go  and  look  for  it  on  the  Town  Mailing 
ground,  it  will  be  found  spinning  still." 

Alfred  MjTin  had  countless  friends  and  no  enemies. 
How  could  he  have  enemies?  He  ate  gigantic  suppers, 
and  once  kept  Richard  Daft  awake  all  night  with  his 
snores.  When  he  died  his  noble  body  was  escorted  to  the 
grave,  at  Thumham,  in  Kent,  by  the  Leeds  and  Hilling- 
bourne  Volunteer  Corps,  of  which  he  was  a  member. 

Let  me  add  a  sentence  from  Denison's  Sketches  of  the 
Players  to  complete  the  eulogy:  "Gratitude  for  a  kind- 
ness displayed  towards  him  is  a  leading  feature  in  his 
character." 

E.  V.  L. 

Ill 

J.\CKSOX'S   pace   is   very  fearful,  Willsher's   hand   is 
very  high; 
William  Caffyn  has  good  judgment  and  an  admirable  eye; 
Jemmy  Grundy's  cool  and  clever,  almost  always  on  the 

spot; 
Tinsley's  slows  are  often  telling,  though  they  sometimes 
catch  it  hot. 

F  65 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

But  however  good  their  trundhng,  pitch  or  pace,  or  break 

or  spin, 
Still  the  monarch  of  all  bowlers,  to  my  mind,  was  Alfred 

Mynn. 

Richard  Daft  is  cool  and  cautious,  with  his  safe  and  grace- 
ful play; 

If  George  Griffith  gets  a  loose  one  he  will  send  it  far  away; 

You  may  bowl  your  best  at  Hayward,  and  whatever  style 
you  try 

Will  be  vanquished  by  the  master's  steady  hand  and 
certain  eye. 

But  whatever  fame  and  glory  these  and  other  bats  may 
win, 

Still  the  monarch  of  hard  hitters,  to  my  mind,  was  Alfred 
Mynn. 

With  his  tall  and  stately  presence,  with  his  nobly  moulded 

form, 
His  broad  hand  was  ever  open,  his  brave  heart  was  ever 

warm; 
All  were  proud  of  him,  all  loved  him.     As  the  changing 

seasons  pass, 
As  our  champion  lies  a-sleeping  underneath  yon  Kentish 

grass. 
Proudly,  sadly,  we  will  name  him:    to  forget  him  were  a 

sin; 
Lightly  lie  the  turf  upon  thee,  kind  and  manly  Alfred 

Mynn! 

N.  Prowse 


66 


Two  Cricketers 

Mr.   Aislabie       <::>       ^^::i^       <:>       ^;:i^       -^^y       <::> 

"  A/T^'  -^ISLABIE'S  wonderful  good  nature,  pleasantry, 
■^  ' -^  and  untiring  zeal  caused  the  eyes  of  all  to  be  turned 
upon  him  in  the  cricket  field.''  So  says  Mr.  A.  Haygarth, 
who  had  a  very  pretty  reverence  for  this  great  man  —  great 
not  only  in  sportsmanship  and  bonhomie,  but  great  also 
physically,  for  towards  the  end  of  his  life  and  his  cricket 
career  (which  terminated  almost  at  the  same  time:  he 
was  playing  until  he  was  sixty-seven  and  he  died  when 
sixty-eight,  in  1842,)  Mr.  Aislabie  weighed  twenty  stone, 
and  had  a  man  not  only  to  run  for  him  when  batting,  but 
to  field  for  him  too  —  just  as  David  Harris  was  provided 
with  an  arm-chair  into  which  to  subside  after  delivering 
the  ball.  But  even  although  Mr.  Aislabie's  part  in  the 
game  was  so  vicarious  and  his  stay  at  the  wicket  so  short, 
to  have  left  him  out  of  a  match  in  which  he  was  willing  to 
play  would  have  been  wantonly  to  eclipse  the  sun.  For 
where  Aislabie  was  were  high  spirits  and  good  fellowship 
of  the  best. 

He  was  bom  in  1774  in  London  and  educated  at  Seven- 
oaks  and  Eton-  He  then  became  a  wine  merchant  and 
VVY'St  India  merchant,  and  took  Lee  Place  in  Kent,  its  owner 
and  which  were  known  facetiously  among  his  friends  as 
"The  Elephant  and  Castle."  Cricket  was  his  passion, 
although  he  was  never  much  good  in  any  department  of 
the  game.  Nevertheless,  as  I  have  said,  he  played  all 
his  life,  often  in  first-class  matches,  and  "his  wonderful 
good  nature,  pleasantry,  and  untiring  zeal  caused  the  eyes 
of  all  to  be  turned  ujjon  him  in  the  cricket  field." 

Though  later  Lord's  was  his  official  cricket  home,  for 
he  was  honorary  .secretary  of  the  M.CC  for  twenty  years, 
Mr.  Aislabie's  happiest  and  least  responsible  days  in  the 

67 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

field  were  with  the  West  Kent  cricketers,  of  whom  Mr. 
Philip  Norman  some  few  years  ago  wrote  such  a  delightful 
history.  That  comely  and  substantial  volume  might  indeed 
be  called  the  epic  of  Aislabie,  since  Aislabie's  vast  jocose 
form  dominates  it,  while  its  pages  are  continually  bubbling 
with  his  convivial  rhymes.  For  Mr.  Aislabie  was  not 
cricketer  alone;  he  was  the  Club's  authorised  Bacchus 
and  the  Club's  self-constituted  Laureate.  After  every 
match  the  eleven  first  drank  Aislabie's  port  (a  pint  to  every 
man),  and  then  listened  to  their  vintner's  irreverent  verses 
on  the  day's  play.  He  missed  nothing.  Mr.  Aislabie 
employed  that  very  useful  medium  for  the  satirist,  the 
rhymed  alphabet,  which  he  managed  very  cleverly,  getting 
a  boundary  into  every  line.  The  Z  —  that  stumbling- 
block  to  most  alphabeticians,  who  usually  decline  weakly 
on  "Zany"  —  he  managed  too,  like  a  man  and  a  wine 
merchant.     Thus :  — 

Y  was  Yoicks  Lockwood,  hark  to  him,  Blue  Mottle ! 
Z  —  that  Z  bothers  me;    push  round  the  bottle! 

Like  a  sensible  cricketer  and  convivial  poet  Mr.  Aislabie 
did  not  force  his  Pegasus  to  take  difficult  hedges;  he 
allowed  liberty  of  action,  and  the  rhymes  are  often  faulty 
and  the  metre  faulty  too.  But  the  spirit!  Here  is  a 
stanza  from  a  song  on  a  match  between  the  Gentlemen  of 
Kent  and  the  M.C.C.  in  1833:  — 

Charley  Harenc  loves  good  wine,  Charley  loves  good  brandy, 
Charley  loves  a  pretty  girl,  as  sweet  as  sugar-candy. 
Charley  is  as  sugar  sweet,  which  quickly  melts  away,  sir, 
Charley  therefore  stops  away  on  a  rainy  day,  sir. 
Charley  knocks  the  knuckles  of  many  an  awkward  clown,  sir. 
If  Charley  stops  away  again,  he'll  chance  to  rap  his  own,  sir. 

Here  the  poet  was  getting  home  a  little,  for  it  seems  that 

Harenc  had  been  down  to  play  at  Lord's  recently,  but 

68 


Two  Cricketers 

because  it  rained  at  Chiselhurst  he  was  some  hours  late, 
whereas  it  did  not  rain  at  Lord's  at  all.  Like  a  true 
satirist  Mr.  Aislabie  was  always  smilingly  rubbing  in  the 
salt.  For  example,  after  R.  W.  Keate  in  three  successive 
innings  had  been  bowled  for  nothing  by  Alfred  Mynn,  and 
had  been  defeated  at  single  wicket  by  J.  L.  Langdon,  he 
wrote  the  following  quatrain,  in  which  "b  Mynn  o"  must 
be  pronounced  as  a  dactyl :  — 

B  Mynn  o  —  b  Mynn  o  —  b  Mynn  o  Keate 
Tried  with  his  bat  jolly  Langdon  to  beat. 
In  vain,  for  with  Langdon  can  never  compete 
B  Mynn  o  —  b  Mynn  o  —  b  Mynn  o  Keate. 

Here  is  one  of  Mr.  Aislabie's  stanzas,  wholly  in  praise, 
upon  the  father  of  the  late  Mr.  Jenner-Fust:  — 

There  is  a  man  at  Chiselhurst,  of  whose  whole  life  the  tenor 
Is  kindness  and  benevolence.     Who's  that?     Sir  Herbert  Jenner. 
He  such  a  hearty  welcome  gives,  and  such  a  splendid  dinner, 
That  even  if  I  lose  the  match,  I  still  shall  be  the  winner. 

At  Eton  Aislabie  was  adored,  and  for  many  years  it 
was  the  custom  to  give  the  captain  of  the  eleven  the  great 
man's  portrait,  with  the  names  of  the  team  written  on  the 
back.  It  may  be  so  to-day,  but  I  imagine  not.  He  figures 
also  historically  at  another  school,  for  Hughes  described 
him  in  Tom  Brown's  Schooldays  as  the  organiser  of  the 
M.C.C.  team  against  Rugby:  "in  a  white  hat,  leaning  on 
a  bat  in  benevolent  enjoyment"  —  a  fine  phrase.  To 
have  a  crack  with  Aislabie  took,  one  fancies,  as  many 
people  to  the  pavilion  at  Lord's  almost  as  to  see  the  match. 
That  building  holds  a  permanent  souvenir  of  him  in  the 
shape  of  a  bust.  The  first  stone  of  the  old  tennis  court 
there  was  laid  by  his  hands. 
69 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Mr.  Aislabie  died  in  1842,  and  was  buried  in  the  parish 
church  of  Marylebone,  but  the  tombstone  above  his  wife 
in  Sevenoaks'  churchyard  bears  his  name.  He  might 
justly  be  called  the  Father  of  club  or  house-party  cricket. 

E.  V.  L. 


70 


VI 

THE   SIMPLE   MINDS 

Prince  Lee  Boo       ^cy         <:>         -^^         ^^^         '^^^ 

THE  Morse  was  commanded  by  Captain  Elliot,  with 
whom  Lee  Boo  made  himself  very  happy.  His 
spirit  of  enquiry,  concerning  various  objects  which  he 
saw,  began  now  to  be  directed  more  to  their  utility  than 
formerly;  and  he  showed  no  small  anxiety  to  pick  up  as 
much  knowledge  as  possible,  with  regard  to  such  articles 
as  would  be  useful  at  Pelew.  His  method  of  keeping 
his  journal  was  singular.  He  had  a  string,  on  which  he 
cast  a  knot  for  every  remarkable  object  he  wished  to  im- 
print on  his  memory.  These  knots  he  examined  daily, 
and,  by  recollecting  the  circumstances  which  occasioned 
their  being  cast,  he  fixed  the  transactions  on  his  memory'. 
The  officers  of  the  Morse  humorously  remarked,  when 
they  saw  him  referring  to  his  hempen  tablet,  that  he  was 
reading  his  journal. 

When  the  Morse  approached  the  British  Channel,  the 
number  of  ships  that  passed  confounded  his  journal,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  discontinue  his  memorandums.  But 
on  landing  at  Portsmouth,  the  objects  which  met  his  view 
were  so  stupendous  and  grand  that  he  was  involved  in 
silent  astonishment,  and  ceased  to  ask  questions. 

The  captain   proceeded    to  London,  impatient  to  see 

71 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

his  family,  and  left  Lee  Boo  under  the  protection  of  his 
brother;  who,  however,  soon  after  set  off  in  a  stage-coach 
with  his  charge.  Describing  his  journey,  he  said  he  had 
been  put  into  a  little  house,  which  horses  ran  away  with, 
and  that  though  he  went  to  sleep  he  did  not  stop  travelling. 

On  his  arrival  in  London,  he  was  not  a  little  happy  to 
meet  with  his  mentor,  his  new  father,  whom  he  was  afraid 
he  had  lost.  Being  shown  his  chamber,  he  could  not 
conceive  the  use  of  the  bed,  it  being  a  four-post  one  and 
of  course  different  from  what  he  had  seen  on  board. 
Before  he  would  repose  himself,  he  jumped  in  and  out 
of  it  several  times,  to  admire  its  form,  and  intimated  that 
here  there  was  a  house  for  everything.  It  was  all  fine 
country,  fine  streets,  fine  coach,  and  house  upon  house 
up  to  the  sky;  for  the  huts  at  Pelew  being  only  one  storey, 
he  considered  every  floor  here  as  a  distinct  house. 

When  he  saw  the  young  asking  charity,  he  was  highly 
offended,  saying  they  ought  to  work ;  but  the  supplication 
of  the  old  and  infirm  met  his  natural  benevolence  — 
"Must  give  poor  old  man;  old  man  no  able  to  work." 

About  this  time  he  appeared  to  be  about  twenty  years 
of  age,  and  of  a  middle  size.  His  expressive  countenance, 
great  sensibility,  and  good  humour,  instantly  prejudiced 
every  one  in  his  favour.  His  eyes  were  so  strikingly 
expressive,  that,  though  he  knew  very  little  English,  his 
meaning  was  easily  understood. 

Captain  Wilson,  one  day,  happening  to  rebuke  his  son 
for  some  trifling  neglect,  in  the  presence  of  Lee  Boo,  the 
generous  youth  was  not  happy  till  he  had  joined  their 
hands,  which  he  did  with  the  tears  of  sensibility  stream- 
ing from  his  eyes.  He  preferred  riding  in  a  coach  to 
every  other  conveyance,  as  it  allowed  people,  he  said,  an 
opportunity  of  talking  together. 
72 


The  Simple  Minds 

He  was  fond  of  going  to  church,  because  he  knew  it 
was  a  religious  duty,  the  object  and  final  end  being  the 
same  both  at  Pelew  and  in  England.  He  was  present  at 
Lunardi's  aerial  ascension,  and  remarked,  that  it  was  a 
ridiculous  mode  of  travelling,  as  it  could  be  done  so  much 
easier  in  a  coach.  Being  shown  a  miniature  of  Mr.  Keate, 
to  whom  he  was  introduced,  he  immediately  recognised 
the  face;  and  as  a  proof  that  he  understood  the  intention 
of  the  mimetic  arts,  he  observed,  "that  when  Misser 
Keate  die,  this  Misser  Keate  live."  The  utility  of  por- 
trait-painting could  not  be  better  defined. 

The  dying  discourse  of  this  child  of  nature  so  affected 
Tom  Rose,  who  attended  him,  that  he  could  not  help 
sobbing  most  piteously,  which  Lee  Boo  observing,  asked 

—  "Why  should  he  cry  so,  because  Lee  Boo  die?" 
After  his  death,  it  was  found  he  had  laid  by  all  the 

seeds  or  stones  of  fruit  he  had  eaten  after  his  arrival,  with 
a  view  to  plant  them  at  Pelew. 

Archibald  Duncan 

Captain  Jackson      <:iy         -v>        -=;>        ^^^        ^o 

T  TE  whom  I  mean  was  a  retired  half-pay  ofTicer,  with 
■'--'-  a  wife  and  two  grown-up  daughters,  whom  he  main- 
tained with  the  port  and  notions  of  gentlewomen  upon 
that  slender  professional  allowance.  Comely  girls  they 
were  too. 

And  was  I  in  danger  of  forgetting  this  man?  —  his 
cheerful  suppers  —  the  noble  tone  of  hospitality,  when 
first  you  set  your  foot  in  the  cottuqc  —  the  anxious  minis- 
terings  about  you,  where  little  or  nothing  (God  knows) 
was  to  be  ministered.  —  Althea's  horn  in  a  poor  platter 

—  the  power  of  self  enchantment,  by  which,  in  his  mag 

73 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

nificent  wishes  to  entertain  you,  he  muhipHed  his  means 
to  bounties. 

You  siw  with  your  bodily  eyes  indeed  what  seemed  a 
bare  scrag  —  cold  savings  from  the  foregone  meal  — 
remnant  hardly  sufficient  to  send  a  mendicant  from  the 
door  contented.  But  in  the  copious  will  —  the  revelling 
imagination  of  your  host  —  the  "mind,  the  mind.  Master 
Shallow,"  —  whole  beeves  were  spread  before  you  —  heca- 
tombs —  no  end  appeared  to  the  profusion. 

It  was  the  widow's  cruse  —  the  loaves  and  fishes ; 
carving  could  not  lessen  nor  helping  diminish  it  —  the 
stamina  were  left  —  the  elemental  bone  still  flourished, 
divested  of  its  accidents. 

"Let  us  live  while  we  can,"  methinks  I  hear  the  open- 
handed  creature  exclaim;  "while  we  have,  let  us  not 
want;"  "here  is  plenty  left;"  "want  for  nothing"  — 
with  many  more  such  hospitable  sayings,  the  spurs  of 
appetite,  and  old  concomitants  of  smoking  boards,  and 
feast-oppressed  charges.  Then  sliding  a  slender  ratio  of 
Single  Gloucester  upon  his  wife's  plate,  or  the  daughters', 
he  would  convey  the  remanent  rind  into  his  own,  with  a 
merry  quirk  of  "the  nearer  the  bone,"  etc.,  and  declaring 
that  he  universally  preferred  the  outside.  For  we  had 
our  table  distinctions,  you  are  to  know,  and  some  of  us 
in  a  manner  sate  above  the  salt.  None  but  his  guest  or 
guests  dreamed  of  tasting  flesh  luxuries  at  night,  the 
fragments  were  vere  hospitibus  sacra.  But  of  one  thing 
or  another  there  was  always  enough,  and  leavings:  only 
he  would  sometimes  finish  the  remainder  crust,  to  show 
that  he  wished  no  savings. 

Wine  we  had  none ;   nor,  except  on  very  rare  occasions, 
spirits;    but  the  sensation  of  wine  was  there.     Some  thin 
kind  of  ale  I  remember—  "British  beverage,"  he  would 
74 


The  Simple   Minds 

say.  "Push  about,  my  boys;"  "Drink  to  your  sweet- 
hearts, girls."  At  every  meagre  draught  a  toast  must 
ensue,  or  a  song.  All  the  forms  of  good  liquor  were  there, 
with  none  of  the  effects  wanting.  Shut  your  eyes,  and 
you  would  swear  a  capacious  bowl  of  punch  was  foaming 
in  the  centre,  with  beams  of  generous  Port  or  IMadeira 
radiating  to  it  from  each  of  the  table  comers.  You  got 
flustered  without  knowing  whence;  tipsy  upon  words; 
and  reeled  under  the  potency  of  his  unperforming  Bac- 
chanalian encouragements. 

We  had  our  songs  —  "Why,  Soldiers,  W'hy"  —  and  the 
"British  Grenadiers"  —  in  which  last  we  were  all  obliged 
to  bear  chorus.  Both  the  daughters  sang.  Their  pro- 
ficiency was  a  nightly  theme  —  the  masters  he  had  given 
them  —  the  "no-expense"  which  he  spared  to  accomplish 
them  in  a  science  "so  necessary  to  young  women."  But 
then  —  they  could  not  sing  "without  the  instrument." 

Sacred,  and,  by  me,  never-to-be-violated.  Secrets  of 
Poverty !  Should  I  disclose  your  honest  aims  at  grandeur, 
your  makeshift  efforts  of  magnificence?  Sleep,  sleep, 
with  all  thy  broken  keys,  if  one  of  the  bunch  be  extant; 
thrummed  by  a  thousand  ancestral  thumbs;  dear,  cracked 
spinet  of  dearer  Louisa !  Without  mention  of  mine,  be 
dumb,  thou  thin  accompanier  of  her  thinner  warble !  A 
veil  be  spread  over  the  dear  delighted  face  of  the  well- 
deluded  father,  who  now  haply  listening  to  cherubic  notes, 
scarce  feels  sincerer  pleasure  than  when  she  awakened  thy 
time-shaken  chords  responsive  to  the  twitterings  of  that 
slender  image  of  a  voice. 

We  were  not  without  our  literary  talk  cither.  It  did 
not  extend  far,  but  as  far  as  it  went,  it  was  good.  It  was 
bottomed  well;  had  good  grounds  to  go  upon.  In  the 
collage  was  a  room,  which  tradition  authenticated  to  have 

75 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

been  the  same  in  which  Glover,  in  his  occasional  retire- 
ments, had  penned  the  greater  part  of  his  "Leonidas." 
This  circumstance  was  nightly  quoted,  though  none  of 
the  present  inmates,  that  I  could  discover,  appeared  ever 
to  have  met  with  the  poem  in  question.  But  that  was  no 
matter.  Glover  had  written  there,  and  the  anecdote  was 
pressed  into  the  account  of  the  family  importance.  It 
diffused  a  learned  air  through  the  apartment,  the  little 
side  casement  of  which  (the  poet's  study  window),  open- 
ing upon  a  superb  view  as  far  as  the  pretty  spire  of  Harrow, 
over  domains  and  patrimonial  acres,  not  a  rood  nor  square 
yard  whereof  our  host  could  call  his  own,  yet  gave  occasion 
to  an  immoderate  expansion  of  —  vanity  shall  I  call  it  ? 
—  in  his  bosom,  as  he  showed  them  in  a  glowing  summer 
evening.  It  was  all  his,  he  took  it  all  in,  and  communicated 
rich  portions  of  it  to  his  guests.  It  was  a  part  of  his  largess, 
his  hospitality;  it  was  going  over  his  grounds;  he  was 
lord  for  the  time  of  showing  them,  and  you  the  implicit 
lookers-up  to  his  magnificence. 

He  was  a  juggler,  who  threw  mists  before  your  eyes  — 
you  had  no  time  to  detect  his  fallacies.  He  would  say, 
"Hand  me  the  silver  sugar-tongs;"  and  before  you  could 
discover  that  it  was  a  single  spoon,  and  that  plated,  he 
would  disturb  and  captivate  your  imagination  by  a  mis- 
nomer of  "  the  urn  "  for  a  tea-kettle ;  or  by  calling  a  homely 
bench  a  sofa.  Rich  men  direct  you  to  their  furniture, 
poor  ones  divert  you  from  it;  he  neither  did  one  nor  the 
other,  but  by  simply  assuming  that  everything  was  hand- 
some about  him,  you  were  positively  at  a  demur  what  you 
did,  or  did  not  see,  at  the  cottage.  With  nothing  to  live 
on,  he  seemed  to  live  on  everything.  He  had  a  stock  of 
wealth  in  his  mind;  not  that  which  is  properly  termed 
Content,  for  in  truth  he  was  not  to  be  contained  at  all,  but 
76 


The  Simple  Minds 

overflowed  all  bounds  by  the  force  of  a  magnificent  self- 
delusion. 

Charles  Lamb 

Poet  Harding     <:^       o       -v^       -v^y       ^^i^       ^^^^ 

HAD  my  rage  for  scribi)ling,  by  the  by,  broken  out 
before  I  quitted  Oxford,  I  do  not  recollect  any  rival 
(the  Professor  of  Poetry  always  excepted)  whom  I  should 
have  encounter'd  in  the  whole  University,  but  Poet  Hard 
ing.  This  man  was  a  half  crazy  creature,  (as  Poets,  indeed, 
generally  are,)  and  was  well  known  in  most  of  the  Colleges. 
He  ran  the  Bell-Man  hard  in  composition,  but  could  not 
come  up  to  him  in  rank,  or  in  riches;  living  chiefly  upon 
what  he  could  get  from  the  undergraduates,  by  engaging 
to  find,  instantaneously,  a  rhyme  for  any  word  in  the 
English  language;  and,  when  he  could  not  find,  he  coin'd 
one :  as  in  the  case  of  rininey  for  chimney  —  which  he 
call'd  a  wild  rhyme.  To  this  vnprovisare  talent,  he  added 
that  of  personification ;  —  sometimes  he  walk'd  about 
with  a  scythe  in  his  hand  as  Time;  sometimes  with  an 
anchor,  as  Hope.  One  day,  I  met  him  with  a  huge  broken 
brick,  and  some  bits  of  thatch  upon  the  crown  of  his  hat ; 
on  my  asking  him  for  a  solution  of  this  prosopopa'ia  — "  Sir," 
said  he,  "to-day  is  the  anniversary  of  the  celeljrated  Doctor 
Goldsmith's  death,  and  I  am  now  in  the  character  of  his 
Deserted  Village." 

George  Colnian  the  Younger 

The  Wooden-Legged  Sailor  -c^        <i,.        ^;:>        <:iy 

T  HAVE  been  led  into  these  reflections  from  accidentally 
■^  meeting,  some  days  ago,  a  jjoor  fellow,  whom  I  knew 
when  a  boy,  dressed  in  a  sailor's  jacket,  and  begging  at 

77 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

one  of  the  outlets  of  the  town,  with  a  wooden  leg.  I 
knew  him  to  have  been  honest  and  industrious  when  in 
the  country,  and  was  curious  to  learn  what  had  reduced 
him  to  his  present  situation.  Wherefore,  after  giving  him 
what  I  thought  proper,  I  desired  to  know  the  history 
of  his  life  and  misfortunes,  and  the  manner  in  which  he 
was  reduced  to  his  present  distress.  The  disabled  soldier, 
for  such  he  was,  though  dressed  in  a  sailor's  habit,  scratch- 
ing his  head,  and  leaning  on  his  crutch,  put  himself  into 
an  attitude  to  comply  with  my  request,  and  gave  me  his 
history  as  follows: 

"As  for  my  misfortunes,  master,  I  can't  pretend  to 
have  gone  through  any  more  than  other  folks ;  for,  except 
the  loss  of  my  limb,  and  my  being  obliged  to  beg,  I  don't 
know  any  reason,  thank  Heaven,  that  I  have  to  complain; 
there  is  Bill  Tibbs,  of  our  regiment,  he  has  lost  both  his 
legs,  and  an  eye  to  boot;  but,  thank  Heaven,  it  is  not  so 
bad  with  me  yet. 

"I  was  born  in  Shropshire,  my  father  was  a  labourer, 
and  died  when  I  was  five  years  old;  so  I  was  put  upon 
the  parish.  As  he  had  been  a  wandering  sort  of  a  man, 
the  parishioners  were  not  able  to  tell  to  what  parish  I 
belonged,  or  where  I  was  born,  so  they  sent  me  to  another 
parish,  and  that  parish  sent  me  to  a  third.  I  thought 
in  my  heart,  they  kept  sending  me  about  so  long,  that 
they  would  not  let  me  be  born  in  any  parish  at  all;  but, 
at  last,  however,  they  fixed  me.  I  had  some  disposition 
to  be  a  scholar,  and  was  resolved,  at  least,  to  know  my 
letters;  but  the  master  of  the  work-house  put  me  to  busi- 
ness as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  handle  a  mallet;  and  here 
I  lived  an  easy  kind  of  a  life  for  five  years.  I  only  wrought 
ten  hours  in  the  day,  and  had  my  meat  and  drink  provided 
for  my  labour.  It  is  true,  I  was  not  suffered  to  stir  out 
78 


The  Simple   Minds 

of  the  house,  for  fear,  as  they  said,  I  should  run  away; 
but  what  of  that,  I  had  the  hberty  of  the  whole  house,  and 
the  yard  before  the  door,  and  that  was  enough  for  me.  I 
was  then  bound  out  to  a  farmer,  where  I  was  up  both  early 
and  late ;  but  I  ate  and  drank  well,  and  liked  my  business 
well  enough,  till  he  died,  when  I  was  obliged  to  provide 
for  myself;    so  I  was  resolved  to  go  seek  my  fortune. 

"In  this  manner  I  went  from  town  to  town,  worked 
when  I  could  get  employment,  and  starved  when  I  could 
get  none:  when  happening  one  day  to  go  through  a  field 
belonging  to  a  justice  of  peace,  I  spy'd  a  hare  crossing 
the  path  just  before  me;  and  I  believe  the  devil  put  it 
in  my  head  to  fling  my  stick  at  it:  —  Well,  what  will  you 
have  on't?  I  killed  the  hare,  and  was  bringing  it  away, 
when  the  justice  himself  met  me:  he  called  me  a  poacher 
and  a  villain;  and  collaring  me,  desired  I  would  give  an 
account  of  myself:  I  fell  upon  my  knees,  begged  his  wor- 
ship's pardon,  and  began  to  give  a  full  account  of  all  that 
I  knew  of  my  breed,  seed,  and  generation;  but,  though  I 
gave  a  very  true  account,  the  justice  said  I  could  give 
no  account;  so  I  was  indicted  at  sessions,  found  guilty 
of  being  poor,  and  sent  up  to  London  to  Newgate,  in 
order  to  be  transported  as  a  vagabond. 

"People  may  say  this  and  that  of  being  in  jail;  but,  for 
my  part,  I  found  Newgate  as  agreeable  a  place  as  ever  I 
was  in  in  all  my  life.  I  had  my  belly  full  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  did  no  work  at  all.  This  kind  of  life  was  too  good 
to  last  for  ever;  so  I  was  taken  out  of  prison,  after  five 
months,  put  on  board  a  ship,  and  sent  off,  with  two  hun- 
dred more,  to  the  plantations.  We  had  but  an  indifferent 
passage,  for,  being  all  confined  in  the  hold,  more  than 
a  hundred  of  our  i)eopIe  died  for  want  of  sweet  air;  and 
those   that   remained   were   sickly   enough,   God   knows 

79 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

When  we  came  ashore  we  were  sold  to  the  planters,  and 
I  was  bound  for  seven  years  more.  As  I  was  no  scholar, 
for  I  did  not  know  my  letters,  I  was  obliged  to  work  among 
the  negroes;  and  I  served  out  my  time,  as  in  duty  bound 
to  do. 

"When  my  time  was  expired,  I  worked  my  passage 
home,  and  glad  I  was  to  see  Old  England  again,  because 
I  loved  my  country.  I  was  afraid,  however,  that  I  should 
be  indicted  for  a  vagabond  once  more,  so  did  not  much 
care  to  go  down  into  the  country,  but  kept  about  the  town, 
and  did  little  jobbs  when  I  could  get  them. 

"I  was  very  happy  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  till 
one  evening,  coming  home  from  work,  two  men  knocked 
me  down,  and  then  desired  me  to  stand.  They  belonged 
to  a  press-gang;  I  was  carried  before  the  justice,  and, 
as  I  could  give  no  account  of  myself,  I  had  my  choice 
left,  whether  to  go  on  board  a  man-of-war,  or  list  for  a 
soldier.  I  chose  the  latter;  and,  in  this  post  of  a  gentle- 
man, I  served  two  campaigns  in  Flanders,  was  at  the 
battles  of  Val  and  Fontenoy,  and  received  but  one  wound, 
through  the  breast  here;  but  the  doctor  of  our  regiment 
soon  made  me  well  again. 

"When  the  peace  came  on  I  was  discharged;  and,  as 
I  could  not  work,  because  my  wound  was  sometimes 
troublesome,  I  listed  for  a  landman  in  the  East-India 
company's  service.  I  here  fought  the  French  in  six 
pitched  battles;  and  I  verily  believe,  that,  if  I  could  read 
or  write,  our  captain  would  have  made  me  a  corporal. 
But  it  was  not  my  good  fortune  to  have  any  promotion, 
for  I  soon  fell  sick,  and  so  got  leave  to  return  home  again 
with  forty  pounds  in  my  pocket.  This  was  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  present  war,  and  I  hoped  to  be  set  on  shore  and 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  spending  my  money;  but  the 
So 


The  Simple   Minds 

government  wanted  men,  and  so  I  was  pressed  for  a  sailor 
before  ever  I  could  set  foot  on  shore. 

"The  boatswain  found  me,  as  he  said,  an  obstinate 
fellow:  he  swore  he  knew  that  I  understood  my  business 
well,  but  that  I  shammed  Abraham,  to  be  idle;  but  God 
knows,  I  knew  nothing  of  sea-business,  and  he  beat  me 
without  considering  what  he  was  about.  I  had  still, 
however,  my  forty  pounds,  and  that  was  some  comfort  to 
me  under  every  beating;  and  the  money  I  might  have 
had  to  this  day,  but  that  our  ship  was  taken  by  the  French, 
and  so  I  lost  all. 

"Our  crew  was  carried  into  Brest,  and  many  of  them 
died,  because  they  were  not  used  to  live  in  a  jail;  but, 
for  my  part,  it  was  nothing  to  me,  for  I  was  seasoned. 
One  night,  as  I  was  sleeping  on  the  bed  of  boards,  with 
a  warm  blanket  about  me,  for  I  always  loved  to  lie  well, 
I  was  awakened  by  the  boatswain,  who  had  a  dark  Ian- 
thorn  in  his  hand;  'Jack,'  says  he  to  me,  'will  you  knock 
out  the  French  centry's  brains?'  I  don't  care,  says  I, 
striving  to  keep  myself  awake,  if  I  lend  a  hand.  'Then 
follow  me,'  says  he,  'and  I  hope  we  shall  do  business.' 
So  up  I  got,  and  tied  my  blanket,  which  was  all  the  cloaths 
I  had,  about  my  middle,  and  went  with  him  to  fight  the 
Frejichmen.  I  hate  the  French  because  they  are  all 
slaves,  and  wear  wooden  Shoes. 

"Though  wc  had  no  arms,  one  Englishman  is  able  to 
beat  five  French  at  any  time;  so  we  went  down  to  the 
door,  where  both  the  ccn tries  were  posted,  and  rushing 
ii[)on  them,  seized  their  arms  in  a  moment,  and  knocked 
them  down.  From  thence,  nine  of  us  ran  together  to  the 
quay,  and,  seizing  the  first  boat  we  met,  got  out  of  the 
harbour  and  put  to  sea.  We  had  not  Ijccn  here  three 
days  before  we  were  taken  up  by  the  Dorset  privateer, 
G  8i 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

who  were  glad  of  so  many  good  hands;  and  we  con- 
sented to  run  our  chance.  However,  we  had  not  as  much 
luck  as  we  expected.  In  three  days  we  fell  in  with  the 
Pompadour  privateer,  of  forty  guns,  while  we  had  but 
twenty -three ;  so  to  it  we  went,  yard-arm  and  yard-arm. 
The  fight  lasted  for  three  hours,  and  I  verily  believe  we 
should  have  taken  the  Frenchman,  had  we  but  had  some 
more  men  left  behind;  but,  unfortunately,  we  lost  all  our 
men  just  as  we  were  going  to  get  the  victory. 

"I  was  once  more  in  the  power  of  the  French,  and  I 
believe  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  me  had  I  been  brought 
back  to  Brest;  but,  by  good  fortune,  we  were  retaken 
by  the  Viper.  I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you,  that,  in  that 
engagement,  I  was  wounded  in  two  places:  I  lost  four 
fingers  of  the  left  hand,  and  my  leg  was  shot  off.  If  I  had 
had  the  good  fortune  to  have  lost  my  leg  and  use  of  my 
hand  on  board  a  king's  ship,  and  not  a-board  a  privateer, 
I  should  have  been  entitled  to  cloathing  and  maintainance 
during  the  rest  of  my  life;  but  that  was  not  my  chance: 
one  man  is  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  and  an- 
other with  a  wooden  ladle.  However,  blessed  be  God, 
I  enjoy  good  health,  and  will  for  ever  love  liberty  and  Old 
England.  Liberty,  property,  and  Old  England,  for  ever, 
huzza!" 

Thus  saying,  he  limped  off,  leaving  me  in  admiration 
at  his  intrepidity  and  content;  nor  could  I  avoid  acknow- 
ledging, that  an  habitual  acquaintance  with  misery  serves 
better  than  philosophy  to  teach  us  to  despise  it. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

Moses  Lump  <:iy        <:>        <c:y        <::>        -<;:>•        •^o 

HERE  lives  in   Hamburgh,  in  the   Bcecker    Breiten- 
gang  by  a  gutter,  a  man  named   Moses    Lump,  — 
82 


T 


The  Simple   Minds 

the  folks  call  him  Lumpy,  for  short,  —  and  he  runs  around 
the  whole  week  in  wind  and  rain,  with  his  pack  on  his 
back,  to  earn  a  few  marks.  Well,  when  Friday  evening 
comes  round,  he  goes  home,  and  finds  the  seven-branched 
lamp  alf  lighted,  a  clean  white  cloth  on  the  table,  and  he 
puts  of?  his  pack  and  all  his  sorrows,  and  sits  down  at  the 
table  with  his  crooked  wife  and  crookeder  daughter,  and 
eats  with  them  fish  which  have  been  cooked  in  nice  white 
garlic  sauce,  and  sings  the  finest  songs  of  King  David,  and 
rejoices  with  all  his  heart  at  the  Exodus  of  the  children  of 
Israel  from  Egypt.  He  feels  glad,  too,  that  all  the  bad 
people  who  did  anything  bad  to  them  died  at  last ;  that 
Eang  Pharaoh,  Nebuchadnezzar,  Haman,  Antiochus, 
Titus,  and  such  hke,  are  all  dead,  but  that  Lumpy  is  still 
alive,  and  eats  fish  with  his  wife  and  child.  And  I  tell  you 
what.  Doctor,  the  fish  are  delicate,  and  the  man  is  happy; 
he  hasn't  any  cause  to  torment  himself  with  any 'accomplish- 
ment'; he  sits  just  as  contented  in  his  religion  and  in  his 
green  night-gown  as  Diogenes  in  his  cask,  and  he  looks  with 
joy  at  the  lights  burning,  which  he  hasn't  even  the  trouble 
of  cleaning.  And  I  tell  you  that  if  the  lights  should  happen 
to  bum  dim,  and  the  Jewess  who  ought  to  snuff  them 
isn't  at  hand,  and  if  Rothschild  the  Great  should  happen  to 
come  in,  with  all  the  brokers,  discounters,  forwarders,  and 
head-clerks  with  whom  he  overcomes  the  world,  and  if  he 
should  say,  'Moses  Lump,  ask  what  thou  wilt,  it  shall  be 
given  thee,'  —  Doctor,  I  believe  that  Moses  would  say, 
quiet  and  easy,  '  Pick  the  lamp,  then ! '  and  Rothschild  the 
Great  would  answer  in  wonder,  'If  I  wasn't  Rothschild,  I'd 
like  to  be  such  a  Lump  as  this  ! ' " 

Heinrich  Heine 


83 


VII 

TWO    BORROWERS 

Ralph  Bigod  <:iy        ^^y        •^^        <::>        -^^y        •^>s. 

"D  EFLECTIONS  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon 
-'-^  my  mind  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph 
Bigod,  Esq.,  who  departed  this  life  on  Wednesday  evening; 
dying,  as  he  had  lived,  without  much  trouble.  He  boasted 
himself  a  descendant  from  mighty  ancestors  of  that  name, 
who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in  this  realm.  In  his 
actions  and  sentiments  he  belied  not  the  stock  to  which  he 
pretended.  Early  in  life  he  found  himself  invested  with 
ample  revenues;  which,  with  that  noble  disinterestedness 
which  I  have  noticed  as  inherent  in  men  of  the  great  race, 
he  took  almost  immediate  measures  entirely  to  dissipate  and 
bring  to  nothing:  for  there  is  something  revolting  in  the 
idea  of  a  king  holding  a  private  purse ;  and  the  thoughts  of 
Bigod  were  all  regal.  Thus  furnished,  by  the  very  act  of 
disfurnishment ;  getting  rid  of  the  cumbersome  luggage 
of  riches,  more  apt  (as  one  sings) 

To  slacken  virtue  and  abate  her  edge, 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise, 

he  set  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great  enter- 
prise, "borrowing  and  to  borrow"  ! 
84 


Two  Borrowers 

In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress  throughout 
this  island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he  laid  a  tithe  part 
of  the  inhabitants  under  contribution.  I  reject  this  esti- 
mate as  greatly  exaggerated :  —  but  having  had  the  honour 
of  accompanying  my  friend,  divers  times,  in  his  perambula- 
tions about  this  vast  city,  I  own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first 
with  the  prodigious  number  of  faces  we  met,  who  claimed  a 
sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with  us.  He  was  one  day  so 
obliging  as  to  explain  the  phenomenon.  It  seems,  these 
were  his  tributaries;  feeders  of  his  exchequer ;  gentlemen, 
his  good  friends  (as  he  was  pleased  to  express  himself),  to 
whom  he  had  occasionally  been  beholden  for  a  loan.  Their 
multitudes  did  no  way  disconcert  him.  He  rather  took 
a  pride  in  numbering  them;  and,  with  Comus,  seemed 
pleased  to  be  "stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was,  a  wonder  how  he  contrived 
to  keep  his  treasury  always  empty.  He  did  it  by  force  of  an 
aphorism,  which  he  had  often  in  his  mouth,  that  "money 
kept  longer  than  three  days  stinks."  So  he  made  use  of  it 
while  it  was  fresh.  A  good  part  he  drank  away  (for  he  was 
an  excellent  toss-pot),  some  he  gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw 
away,  literally  tossing  and  hurling  it  violently  from  him  — 
as  boys  do  burrs,  or  as  if  it  had  been  infectious,  —  into 
ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep  holes,  — inscrutable  cavities  of  the 
earth ;  —  or  he  would  bury  it  (where  he  would  never  seek  it 
again)  by  a  river's  side  under  some  bank,  which  (he  would 
facetiously  observe)  paid  no  interest  —  but  out  away  from 
him  it  must  go  peremptorily,  as  Hagar's  offspring  into  the 
wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet.  He  never  missed  it.  The 
streams  were  perennial  which  fed  his  fisc.  When  new 
supplies  became  necessary,  the  first  person  that  had  the 
felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or  stranger,  was  sure  to 
contribute  to  the  deficiency.     For  Bigod  had  an  undeniable 

85 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

way  with  him.  He  had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick 
jovial  eye,  a  bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  grey  {cana 
fides).  He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and  found  none.  And, 
waiving  for  a  while  my  theory  as  to  the  great  race,  I  would 
put  it  to  the  most  untheorizing  reader,  who  may  at  times 
have  disposable  coin  in  his  pocket,  whether  it  is  not  more 
repugnant  to  the  kindliness  of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a 
one  as  I  am  describing,  than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  petitionary 
rogue  (your  bastard  borrower),  who,  by  his  mumping  vis- 
nomy,  tells  you,  that  he  expects  nothing  better;  and,  there- 
fore, whose  preconceived  notions  and  expectations  you  do 
in  reality  so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

When  I  think  of  this  man;  his  fiery  glow  of  heart;  his 
swell  of  feeling;  how  magnificent,  how  ideal  he  was;  how 
great  at  the  midnight  hour ;  and  when  I  compare  with  him 
the  companions  with  whom  I  have  associated  since,  I 
grudge  the  saving  of  a  few  idle  ducats,  and  think  that  I  am 
fallen  into  the  society  of  lenders  and  little  men. 

Charles  Lamb 

Mr.  Ross  of  Pitcalnie  -"c^,.       "Ci.,       '^;::^       -Cy      <:nk 

ly /TR.  ROSS  of  Pitcalnie,  representative  of  the  ancient 
^^^  and  noble  family  of  Ross,  had,  like  Colquhoun 
Grant,  been  out  in  the  Forty -Five,  and  consequently  lived 
on  terms  of  intimate  friendship  with  that  gentleman.  Pit- 
calnie, however,  had  rather  devoted  himself  to  the  dissipa- 
tion rather  than  the  acquisition  of  a  fortune;  and,  while 
Mr.  Grant  lived  as  a  wealthy  writer,  he  enjoyed  little  better 
than  the  character  of  a  broken  laird.  This  unfortunate 
Jacobite  was  one  day  in  great  distress  for  want  of  the  sum 
of  forty  pounds,  which  he  could  not  prevail  on  any  of  his 
friends  to  lend  him,  all  of  them  being  aware  of  his  exe- 
86 


Two  Borrowers 

crable  character  as  a  debtor.  At  length  he  informed  some 
of  his  companions  that  he  beUeved  he  should  get  what  he 
wanted  from  Colquhoun  Grant,  and  he  instantly  proposed 
to  make  the  attempt.  All  who  heard  him  scoffed  at  the 
idea  of  his  squeezing  a  subsidy  from  so  close-fisted  a  man; 
and  some  even  offered  to  lay  bets  against  its  possibility. 
Mr.  Ross  accepted  the  bets,  and  lost  no  time  in  applying  to 
his  old  brother-in-arms,  whom  he  found  immured  in  his 
chambers,  half  a  dozen  flights  of  steps  up  Gavinloch's 
Land,  in  the  Lawnmarket. 

The  conversation  commenced  with  the  regular  common- 
places; and,  for  a  long  time,  Pitcalnie  gave  no  hint  that  he 
was  suing  in  forma  pauperis.  At  length  he  slighdy  hinted 
the  necessity  under  which  he  lay  for  a  trifle  of  money,  and 
made  bold  to  ask  if  Mr.  Grant  could  help  him  in  a  profes- 
sional way.  "What  a  pity,  Pitcalnie,"  replied  the  writer, 
"you  did  not  apply  yesterday!  I  sent  all  the  loose  money 
I  had  to  the  bank  just  this  forenoon.  It  is  for  the  present 
quite  beyond  redemption."  "Oh,  no  matter,"  said  Pit- 
calnie, and  continued  the  conversation  as  if  no  request  had 
been  preferred.  By  and  by,  and  after  some  more  topics  of 
an  ordinary  sort  had  been  discussed,  he  at  length  intro- 
duced the  old  subject  of  the  Forty-Five,  upon  which  both 
were  alike  well  prepared  to  speak.  A  thousand  delightful 
recollections  then  rushed  upon  the  minds  of  the  two  friends, 
and,  in  the  rising  tide  of  ancient  feeling,  all  distinction  of 
l)orrower  or  lender  was  soon  lost.  Pitcalnie  watched  the 
time  when  Grant  was  fully  mellowed  by  the  conversation 
to  bring  in  a  few  compliments  upon  his  (Grant's)  own 
jjarticular  achievements.  He  expatiated  upon  the  brav- 
ery which  his  friend  had  shown  at  Preston,  where  he  was  the 
first  man  to  go  up  to  the  cannon;  on  which  account  he 
made  out  that  the  whole  victorv,  so  influential  to  the  Prince's 

87 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

affairs,  was  owing  to  no  other  than  Colquhoun  Grant,  now 
Writer  to  the  Signet,  Gavinloch's  Land,  Lawnmarket, 
Edinburgh.  He  also  adverted  to  the  boldness  Mr.  Grant 
had  displayed  in  chasing  a  band  of  recreant  dragoons  from 
the  field  of  battle  up  to  the  very  gates  of  Edinburgh  Castle; 
and  farther,  upon  the  dexterity  which  he  subsequently 
displayed  in  making  his  escape  from  the  town. 

"Bide  a  wee,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  at  this  stage  of  the  con- 
versation, "till  I  gang  ben  the  house." 

He  immediately  returned  with  the  sum  Pitcalnie  wanted, 
which  he  said  he  now  recollected  having  left  over  for  some 
time  in  the  shuttle  of  his  private  desk.  Pitcalnie  took  the 
money,  continued  the  conversation  for  some  time  longer, 
and  then  took  an  opportunity  of  departing. 

When  he  came  back  to  his  friends,  every  one  eagerly 
asked  —  "What  success?"  "Why,  there's  the  money," 
said  he.     "Where  are  my  bets?" 

"Incredible!"  every  one  exclaimed.  "How,  in  the 
name  of  wonder,  did  you  get  it  out  of  him?  Did  you 
cast  glamour  in  his  een?"  Pitcalnie  explained  the  plan 
he  had  taken  with  his  friend,  adding,  with  an  expressive 
wink,  "  This  forty's  made  out  o'  the  battle  of  Preston;  but 
stay  a  wee,  lads,  I've  Falkirk  i'  my  pouch  yet  —  by  my 
faith  I  wadna  gi'e  it  for  auchty." 

James  Paterson 


VIII 
HUMAN   DIVINES 

Dr.  John  Brown       <::>        ^^:>        ^;:::y        <:>        ^;:::> 

TTE  often  said,  with  deep  feeling,  that  one  thing  put  him 
-*-  ■*■  always  on  his  mettle,  the  knowledge  that  "yonder  in 
that  corner,  under  the  gallery,  sat,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath, 
a  man  who  knew  his  Greek  Testament  better  than  I  did." 

This  was  his  brother-in-law,  and  one  of  his  elders, 
Mr.  Robert  Johnston,  married  to  his  sister  Violet,  a  mer- 
chant and  portioner  in  Biggar,  a  remarkable  man,  of  whom 
it  is  diflicult  to  say  to  strangers  what  is  true,  without  being 
accused  of  exaggeration.  A  shopkeeper  in  that  remote  little 
town,  he  not  only  intermeddled  fearlessly  with  all  knowledge, 
but  mastered  more  than  many  practised  and  University  men 
do  in  their  own  lines.  Mathematics,  astronomy,  and  es- 
pecially what  may  be  called  selenology,  or  the  doctrine  of 
the  moon,  and  the  higher  geometry  and  physics;  Hebrew, 
Sanscrit,  Greek,  and  Latin,  to  the  veriest  rigours  of  prosody 
and  metre;  Spanish  and  Italian,  German,  French,  and  any 
odd  language  that  came  in  his  way;  all  these  he  knew  more 
or  less  thoroughly,  and  acquired  them  in  the  most  leisurely, 
easy,  cool  sort  of  a  way,  as  if  he  grazed  and  browsed  perpetu- 
ally in  the  field  of  letters,  rather  than  made  formal  meals,  or 
gathered  for  any  ulterior  purpose,  his  fruits,  his  roots,  and 
his  nuts  —  he  especially  liked  mental  nuts  —  much  less 
bought  them  from  any  <jne. 

89 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Wiih  all  this,  his  knowledge  of  human,  and  especially 
of  Biggar  human  nature,  the  ins  and  outs  of  its  little  secret 
ongoings,  the  entire  gossip  of  the  place,  was  like  a  woman's; 
moreover,  every  personage  great  or  small,  heroic  or  comic, 
in  Homer  —  whose  poems  he  made  it  a  matter  of  conscience 
to  read  once  every  four  years  —  Plautus,  Suetonius,  Plu- 
tarch, Tacitus,  and  Lucian,  down  through  Boccaccio  and 
Don  Quixote,  which  he  knew  by  heart  and  from  the  living 
Spanish,  to  Joseph  Andrews,  the  Spectator,  Goldsmith 
and  Swift,  Miss  Austen,  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  Miss  Ferrier, 
Gait  and  Sir  Walter — -he  was  as  familiar  with  as  with  David 
Crockat  the  nailer,  or  the  parish  minister,  the  town- 
drummer,  the  mole-catcher,  or  the  poaching  weaver,  who 
had  the  night  before  leistered  a  prime  kipper  at  Rachan 
Mill,  by  the  flare  of  a  tarry  wisp,  or  brought  home  his  sur- 
reptitious grey  hen  or  maukin  from  the  wilds  of  Dunsyre  or 
the  dreary  Lang  Whang. 

This  singular  man  came  to  the  manse  every  Friday 
evening  for  many  years,  and  he  and  my  father  discussed 
everything  and  everybody ;  —  beginning  with  tough, 
strong  head-work  —  a  bout  at  wrestling,  be  it  Caesar's 
Bridge,  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris,  the  import  of  ^tev  and 
Se,  the  Catholic  question,  or  the  great  roots  of  Christian 
faith;  ending  with  the  latest  joke  in  the  town  or  the  West 
Raw,  the  last  effusion  by  Afileck,  tailor  and  poet,  the  last 
blunder  of  ^sop  the  apothecary,  and  the  last  repartee  of  the 
village  fool,  with  the  week's  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  news 
by  their  respective  carriers;  the  whole  little  life,  sad  and 
humorous  —  who  had  been  born,  and  who  was  dying  or 
dead,  married  or  about  to  be,  for  the  past  eight  days. 

This  amused,  and,  in  the  true  sense,  diverted  my  father, 
and  gratified  his  curiosity,  which  was  great,  and  his  love 
of  men  as  well  as  for  man.     He  was  shy,  and  unwilling 

90 


Human   Divines 

to  ask  what  he  longed  to  know,  liking  better  to  have  it 
given  him  without  the  asking;  and  no  one  could  do  this 
better  than  "Uncle  Johnston." 

You  may  readily  understand  what  a  thorough  exercise 
and  diversion  of  an  intellectual  and  social  kind  this  was, 
for  they  were  neither  of  them  men  to  shirk  from  close 
gripes,  or  trifle  and  flourish  with  their  weapons;  they  laid 
on  and  spared  not.  And  then  my  uncle  had  generally 
some  special  nut  of  his  own  to  crack,  some  thesis  to  fling 
down  and  off'er  battle  on,  some  "  particle  "  to  energize  upon ; 
for  though  quiet  and  calm,  he  was  thoroughly  combative, 
and  enjoyed  seeing  his  friend's  blood  up,  and  hearing  his 
emphatic  and  bright  speech,  and  watching  his  flashing  eye. 
Then  he  never  spared  him;  criticised  and  sometimes 
quizzed  —  for  he  had  great  humour  —  his  style,  as  well  as 
debated  and  weighed  his  apprehendings  and  exegeses, 
shaking  them  heartily  to  test  their  strength.  He  was  so 
thoroughly  independent  of  all  authority,  except  that  of 
reason  and  truth,  and  his  own  humour;  so  ready  to  detect 
what  was  weak,  extravagant,  or  unfair;  so  full  of  relish  for 
intellectual  power  and  accuracy,  and  so  attached  to  and 
proud  of  my  father,  and  bent  on  his  making  the  best  of  him- 
self, that  this  trial  was  never  relaxed.  His  firm  and  close- 
grained  mind  was  a  sort  of  whetstone  on  which  my  father 
sharpened  his  wits  at  this  weekly  "setting." 

The  very  difference  of  their  mental  tempers  and  com- 
plexions drew  them  together  —  the  one  impatient,  nervous, 
earnest,  instant,  swift,  vehement,  regardless  of  exertion, 
bent  on  his  goal,  like  a  thorough-bred  racer,  pressing  to  the 
mark;  the  other  leisurely  to  slowness  and  provokingncss, 
with  a  constitution  which  could  stand  a  great  deal  of  ease, 
unimpassiont'fl,  still,  clear,  untroubled  by  likings  or  dislik- 
ings,  flwclling  and  working    in    thought    and  speculation 

91 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

and  observation  as  ends  in  themselves,  and  as  their  own 
rewards:  the  one  hunting  for  a  principle  or  a  "divine 
method";  the  other  sapping  or  shelling  from  a  dis- 
tance, and  for  his  pleasure,  a  position,  or  gaining  a  point, 
or  settling  a  rule,  or  verifying  a  problem,  or  getting  axiomatic 
and  proverbial. 

In  appearance  they  were  as  curiously  unlike;  my  uncle 
short  and  round  to  rotundity,  homely  and  florid  in  feature. 
I  used  to  think  Socrates  must  have  been  like  him  in  visage 
as  well  as  in  much  of  his  mind.'  He  was  careless  in  his 
dress,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  as  a  rule,  and  strenuous  only 
in  smoking  or  in  sleep ;  with  a  large,  full  skull,  a  humorous 
twinkle  in  his  cold,  blue  eye,  a  soft,  low  voice,  expressing 
every  kind  of  thought  in  the  same,  sometimes  plaguily 
douce  tone;  a  great  power  of  quiet  and  telling  sarcasm, 
large  capacity  of  listening  to  and  of  enjoying  other  men's 
talk,  however  small. 

My  father  —  tall,  slim,  agile,  quick  in  his  movements, 
graceful,  neat  to  nicety  in  his  dress,  with  much  in  his 
air  of  what  is  called  style,  with  a  face  almost  too  beautiful 
for  a  man's,  had  not  his  eyes  commanded  it  and  all  who 
looked  at  it,  and  his  close,  firm  mouth  been  ready  to  say 
what  the  fiery  spirit  might  bid;  his  eyes,  when  at  rest, 
expressing  —  more  than  almost  any  other  I  ever  saw  — 
sorrow  and  tender  love,  a  desire  to  give  and  to  get  sympathy, 
and  a  sort  of  gentle,  deep  sadness,  as  if  that  was  their  perma- 
nent state,  and  gladness  their  momentary  act;  but  when 
awakened,  full  of  fire,  peremptory,  and  not  to  be  trifled  with ; 
and  his  smile,  and  flash  of  gaiety  and  fun,  something  no  one 
could  forget;  his  hair  in  early  life  a  dead  black;  his  eye- 
brows of  exquisite  curve,  narrow  and  intense;  his  voice 
deep  when  unmoved  and  calm ;  keen  and  sharp  to  piercing 
fierceness  when  vehement  and  roused  —  in  the  pulpit,  at 
92 


Human   Divines 

times  a  shout,  at  times  a  pathetic  wail ;  his  utterance  hesitat- 
ing, emphatic,  explosive,  powerful,  —  each  sentence  shot 
straight  and  home;  his  hesitation  arising  from  his  crowd 
of  impatient  ideas,  and  his  resolute  will  that  they  should  come 
in  their  order,  and  some  of  them  not  come  at  all,  only  the  best, 
and  his  settled  determination  that  each  thought  should  be 
dressed  in  the  very  and  only  word  which  he  stammered  on 
till  it  came,  —  it  was  generally  worth  his  pains  and  ours. 

Uncle  Johnston,  again,  flowed  on  like  Caesar's  Arar  in- 
credibili  lenitale,  or  like  linseed  out  of  a  poke.  You  can 
easily  fancy  the  spiritual  and  bodily  contrast  of  these  men, 
and  can  fancy,  too,  the  kind  of  engagements  they  would 
have  with  their  own  proper  weapons  on  these  Friday 
evenings,  in  the  old  manse  dining-room,  my  father  showing 
uiicle  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  back-road,  and  uncle, 
doubtless,  lighting  his  black  and  ruminative  pipe. 

He  had  no  turn  for  gardening  or  for  fishing,  or  any 
field  sports  or  games;  his  sensitive  nature  recoiled  from 
the  idea  of  pain,  and  above  all,  needless  pain.  He  used 
to  say  the  lower  creation  had  groans  enough,  and  needed 
no  more  burdens;  indeed,  he  was  fierce  to  some  measure 
of  unfairness  against  such  of  his  brethren  —  Dr.  Wardlaw, 
for  instance  '  as  resembled  the  apostles  in  fishing  for 
other  things  besides  men. 

But  the  exercise  and  the  excitement  he  most  of  all  others 
delighted  in,  was  riding;  and  had  he  been  a  country 
gentleman  and  not  a  clergyman,  I  don't  think  he  could 
have  resi.stcd  fox-hunting.  With  the  exception  of  that 
great  genius  in  more  than  horsemanship,  Andrew  Ducrow, 
I  never  saw  a  man  sit  a  horse  as  he  did.     He  seemed  in- 

'  After  a  tight  discussion  between  these  two  attached  friends, 
fJr.  Wardlaw  said,  "  Well,  I  can't  answer  you,  but  fish  I  must 
an(l  shall." 

93 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

spired,  gay,  erect,  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  fearless  and  secure. 
I  have  heard  a  farmer  friend  say  if  he  had  not  been  a 
preacher  of  the  gospel  he  would  have  been  a  cavalry  officer, 
and  would  have  fought  as  he  preached. 

He  was  known  all  over  the  Upper  Ward  and  down 
Tweeddale  for  his  riding.  "There  goes  the  minister," 
as  he  rode  past  at  a  swift  canter.  He  had  generally  well- 
bred  horses,  or  as  I  would  now  call  them,  ponies ;  if  he  had 
not,  his  sufferings  from  a  dull,  hardmouthed,  heavy  hearted 
and  footed  plebeian  horse  were  almost  comic.  On  his  grey 
mare,  or  his  little  blood  bay  horse,  to  see  him  setting  off  and 
indulging  it  and  himself  in  some  alarming  gambols,  and  in 
the  midst  of  his  difficulties,  partly  of  his  own  making,  taking 
oflf  his  hat  or  kissing  his  hand  to  a  lady,  made  one  think  of 
"young  Harry  with  his  beaver. up."  He  used  to  tell  with 
much  relish,  how,  one  fine  summer  Sabbath  evening,  after 
preaching  in  the  open  air  for  a  collection,  in  some  village 
near,  and  having  put  the  money,  chiefly  halfpence,  into 
his  handkerchief,  and  that  into  his  hat,  he  was  taking  a 
smart  gallop  home  across  the  moor,  happy  and  relieved, 
when  three  ladies  —  I  think,  the  Miss  Bertrams  of  Kerse- 
well  —  came  suddenly  upon  him ;  off  went  the  hat,  down 
bent  the  head,  and  over  him  streamed  the  cherished  collec- 
tion, the  ladies  busy  among  the  wild  grass  and  heather  pick- 
ing it  up,  and  he  full  of  droll  confusion  and  laughter.  . .  . 

My  father  said,  "John,  if  you  are  going,  I  would  like 
to  ride  out  with  you;"  he  wished  to  see  his  dying  friend. 
"You  ride  !"  said  Mr.  Stone,  who  has  a  very  Yorkshireman 
in  the  matter  of  horses.  "Let  him  try,"  said  I.  The  up- 
shot was,  that  Mr.  Stone  sent  the  chestnut  for  me,  and  a 
sedate  pony  —  called,  if  I  forget  not,  Goliath  —  for  his 
minister,  with  all  sorts  of  injunctions  to  me  to  keep  him 
off  the  thoroughbred,  and  on  Goliath. 
94 


Human   Divines 

My  father  had  not  been  on  a  horse  for  nearly  twenty 
years.  He  mounted  and  rode  off.  He  soon  got  teased 
with  the  short,  pattering  steps  of  GoHath,  and  looked 
wistfully  up  at  me,  and  longingly  to  the  tall  chestnut, 
stepping  once  for  Goliath's  twice,  like  the  Don  striding 
beside  Sancho.  I  saw  what  he  was  after,  and  when  past  the 
toll  he  said  in  a  mild  sort  of  way,  "John,  did  you  promise 
absolutely  I  was  not  to  ride  your  horse?"  "No,  father, 
certainly  not.  Mr.  Stone,  I  daresay,  wished  me  to  do  so, 
but  I  didn't."  "Well,  then,  I  think  we'll  change;  this 
beast  shakes  me."  So  we  changed.  I  remember  how 
noble  he  looked;  how  at  home:  his  white  hair  and  his 
dark  eyes,  his  erect,  easy,  accustomed  seat.  He  soon  let 
his  eager  horse  slip  gently  away.  It  was  first  evasit,  he  was 
off,  Goliath  and  I  jogging  on  behind;  then  erupit,  and  in  a 
twinkling  —  evanuit.  I  saw  them  last  flashing  through  the 
arch  under  the  Canal,  his  white  hair  flying.  I  was  uneasy, 
though  from  his  riding  I  knew  he  was  as  yet  in  command,  so 
I  put  Goliath  to  his  best,  and  having  passed  through  Slate- 
ford,  I  asked  a  stonebreaker  if  he  saw  a  gentleman  on  a 
chestnut  horse.  "Has  he  white  hair?"  "Yes."  "And 
een  like  a  gled's?"  "Yes."  "Weel,  then,  he's  fleein' 
up  the  road  like  the  wund;  he'll  be  at  Little  Vantage" 
(about  nine  miles  off)  "in  nae  time  if  he  haud  on."  I 
never  once  sighted  him,  but  on  coming  into  Juniper  Green 
there  was  his  steaming  chestnut  at  the  gate,  neighing  cheerily 
to  Goliath.  I  went  in ;  he  was  at  the  bedside  of  his  friend, 
and  in  the  midst  of  prayer;  his  words  as  I  entered  were, 
"When  thou  passest  through  the  waters  I  will  be  with  thee, 
and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not  overflow  thee;"  and 
he  was  not  the  less  instant  in  prayer  that  his  blood  was  up 
with  his  ride. 

Dr.  John  Brown 

95 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

The  Rev.  John  Berridge      -n:^        <;>        -;^         ^c:^^ 

AVERY  eccentric  but  an  earnest  and  powerful  preacher, 
if  we  may  judge  from  the  effects  which  his  sermons 
produced,  was  the  Rev.  John  Berridge,  Fellow  of  Clare 
Hall,  Cambridge,  Vicar  of  Everton,  Bedfordshire,  and 
chaplain  to  the  Earl  of  Buchan  (1716-1793).  He  was  the 
son  of  a  wealthy  farmer  and  grazier  of  Kingston,  in  Notting- 
hamshire, and  had  an  amazing  career.  His  biographer  well 
says  that  he  did  not  move  in  a  regular  orbit,  but,  "like  a 
planet,  steered  his  course  with  great  irregularity";  but  he 
had  splendid  piety,  and  his  labours  were  incessant  to  pro- 
mote the  glory  of  God,  the  interests  of  Christ's  kingdom, 
and  the  welfare  of  immortal  souls.  Although  he  was  Vicar 
of  Everton,  he  conceived  that  his  parish  was  the  world, 
and,  in  spite  of  episcopal  admonitions,  he  wandered  about 
preaching  wherever  he  listed. 

He  was  very  learned  in  classical  lore,  philosophy,  logic, 
metaphysics,  and  during  a  long  period  before  his  itinerant 
preaching  began  used  to  read  fifteen  hours  a  day.  His 
humour  was  evident  in  his  sermons,  and  he  could  move  a 
multitude  to  hearty  laughter,  as  he  did  to  tears  and  groans. 
The  scenes  of  his  itinerant  preaching  were  in  the  counties 
of  Bedford,  Cambridge,  Essex,  Hertford,  and  Huntingdon. 
Some  idea  of  his  labours  may  be  formed  from  the  record 
that  he  used  to  preach  ten  or  twelve  sermons  a  week  and  ride 
a  hundred  miles,  and  this  he  continued  for  more  than  twenty 
years.  He  did  not  escape  persecution.  Some  of  his  fol- 
lowers were  roughly  handled.  Gentry  and  magistrates 
tried  to  silence  his  preaching.  But  "the  old  Devil,"  as 
they  called  him,  quietly  went  on  his  way.  He  scorned  epis- 
copal injunctions,  and  frequently  preached  at  Whitfield's 
Tabernacle  in  London,  and  at  the  Tottenham  Court 
96 


Human   Divines 

Chapel,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  neighbouring  clergy 
were  rather  oflFended,  because  Berridge  drew  away  all  their 
congregations.  They  complained  to  the  bishop,  and  one 
of  his  own  people  tried  to  deprive  him  of  his  living.  He 
was  summoned  before  the  bishop. 

"Well,  Berridge,  they  tell  me  you  go  about  preaching 
out  of  your  own  parish,"  said  the  bishop;   "did  I  institute 

you  to  the  livings  of  A ,  orE ,  orP ?"  naming 

certain  parishes  where  Berridge  had  preached.  "No,  my 
lord,"  said  Berridge,  "neither  do  I  claim  any  of  these 
livings;  the  clergymen  enjoy  them  undisturbed  by  mc." 
"Well,  but  you  go  and  preach  there,  which  you  have  no 
right  to  do."  "  It  is  true,  my  lord,  I  was  one  day  at  E— — , 
and  there  were  a  few  poor  people  assembled  together,  and  I 
admonished  them  to  repent  of  their  sins,  and  to  believe  in 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  for  the  salvation  of  their  souls; 
and  I  remember  seeing  five  or  six  clergymen  that  day,  my 

lord,  all  out  of  their  parishes,  upon  E bowling-green." 

"Pooh!"  said  his  lordship.  "I  tell  you  you  have  no  right 
to  preach  out  of  your  own  parish;  and  if  you  do  not  desist 
from  it,  you  will  very  likely  be  sent  to  Huntingdon  Gaol." 
"  .\s  to  that,  my  lord,  I  have  no  greater  liking  to  Huntingdon 
Gaol  than  other  people;  but  I  had  rather  go  thither  with  a 
good  conscience  than  live  at  my  liberty  without  one." 
The  bishop  then  tried  persuasion,  but  it  was  no  use;  and 
when  the  bishop  appealed  to  Canon  Law,  Berridge  replied 
that  there  was  one  canon  which  said  "  Go,  preach  the  gospel 
to  every  creature." 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  be  disturbed  and  driven 
from  his  parish.  He  was  at  college  with  Pitt  (Lord 
Chatham),  and  another  old  friend  wrote  to  Pitt,  asking 
him  to  u.sc  his  influence  on  behalf  of  Berridge.  Pitt  wrote 
to  the  nobleman  to  whom  the  bishoj)  was  infiebled  for  his 
H  97 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

promotion.  This  nobleman  wrote  to  the  bishop:  "My 
lord,  I  am  informed  you  have  a  very  honest  fellow,  one 
Berridge,  in  your  diocese,  and  that  he  has  been  ill-treated 
by  a  litigious  person,  who  has  accused  him  to  your  lordship, 
and  wishes  to  turn  him  out  of  his  living.  You  will  oblige 
me,  my  lord,  if  you  will  take  no  notice  of  that  person,  and  not 
suffer  the  honest  man  to  be  interrupted  in  his  living." 

So  the  bishop  was  obliged  to  bow  compliance,  and  when 
the  disappointed  litigious  person  returned  home  he  was 
met  by  his  friends  with  the  inquiry,  "Have  you  got  the  old 
devil  out?"  and  he  replied,  "No,  nor  do  I  think  the  very 
devil  himself  can  get  him  out." 

His  advice  to  a  young  country  clergyman  would  not  be 
agreeable  to  the  strictest  sect  of  teetotalers.  He  said, 
"  Keep  a  barrel  of  ale  in  your  house ;  and  when  a  man  comes 
to  you  with  a  message,  or  on  other  business,  give  him  some 
refreshment,  that  his  ears  may  be  more  open  to  your  re- 
ligious instructions."  Mr.  Whittingham,  his  curate  and 
editor  of  his  works,  tells  many  stories  about  him  which 
reveal  his  quaint  humour.  He  came  to  see  Berridge,  hoping 
to  be  accepted  as  his  curate.  The  parson  regarded  the 
young  man  earnestly,  and  observing  his  light-coloured 
waistcoat  and  stockings,  smiling,  said,  "If  you  come  to  be 
my  curate,  you  must  draw  that  waistcoat  and  those  stock- 
ings up  the  chimney."  His  advice  as  regards  preaching  was 
remarkable:  "Lift  up  your  voice  and  frighten  the  jack- 
'hws  out  of  the  steeple;  for  if  you  do  not  cry  aloud  while 
vou  are  young,  you  will  not  do  it  when  you  are  old." 

Berridge  never  married.  He  once  thought  of  matri- 
mony, but  after  praying  he  determined  to  seek  a  decision 
from  his  Bible,  opening  it  at  random,  and  fixing  his  eye 
on  the  first  verse  that  presented  itself.  The  verse  from 
Jeremiah  xvi.  2  first  caught  his  eye:  "Thou  shalt  not 
98 


Human   Divines 

take  thee  a  wife,  neither  shah  thou  have  sons  nor  daugh- 
ters."    The  question  was  settled. 

A  lady  from  London  once  drove  to  his  vicarage  at 
Everton,  announcing  that  the  Lord  had  revealed  it  to  her 
that  she  was  to  become  his  wife.  This  was  a  little  startling, 
but  Berridge  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion ;  he  replied : 
"Madam,  if  the  Lord  has  revealed  it  to  you  that  you  are 
to  be  my  wife,  surely  He  would  also  have  revealed  it  to 
me  that  I  was  destined  to  be  your  husband ;  but  as  no 
such  revelation  has  been  made  to  me,  I  cannot  comply 
with  your  wishes." 

The  following  epitaph,  written  by  himself,  excepting, 
of  course,  the  date  of  his  death,  is  inscribed  on  his  tomb 
at  Everton.     It  is  curious,  and  sets  forth  his  theological 
views,  and  is  a  pronouncement  of  his  faith  and  hope: 
Here  lie 
The  earthly  remains  of 
JOHN  BERRIDGE, 
Late  Vicar  of  Everton, 
And  an  itinerant  servant  of  Jesus  Christ, 
who  loved  his  Master,  and  his  work. 
And,  after  running  on  His  errands  many  years, 
was  called  up  to  wait  on  Him  above. 
Reader 
Art  thou  born  again? 
No  Salvation  without  a  New  Birth! 
I  was  born  in  sin,  February,  1716, 
Remained  ignorant  of  my  fallen  state  till  1730, 
Lived  proudly  on  Faith  and  Works  for  Salvation 
till  1754, 
Admitted  to  Everton  Vicarage,  1755, 
Fled  to  JESUS  alone  for  Refuge,  1756. 
Fell  asleep  in  Christ,  January  22,  1703- 

P.  H.  bitchfield 
99 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

The  Rev.  Mr.  M ^;:i^       -<:>       ^Cy        ^^i^       '■c^y 

T  TE  was  highly  incensed  at  a  long  engagement  being 
■*-  ^  broken  off  between  some  young  people  in  his  parish, 
so  next  Sunday  he  preached  on  "Let  love  be  without  dis- 
simulation"; and  the  sermon,  which  on  this  occasion 
was  extempore,  was  reported  by  those  who  heard  it  to 
consist  of  little  more  than  this  —  "You  see,  my  dearly 
beloved  brethren,  what  the  Apostle  says  —  Let  love  be 
without  dissimulation.  Now  I'll  tell  y'  what  I  think 
dissimulation  is.  When  a  young  man  goes  out  a-walking 
with  a  girl,  —  as  nice  a  lass  as  ever  you  saw,  with  an  un- 
common fresh  pair  o'  cheeks  and  pretty  black  eyes  too, 
and  not  a  word  against  her  character,  very  respectably 
brought  up,  —  when,  I  say,  my  dearly  beloved  brethren, 
a  young  chap  goes  out  walking  with  such  a  young  woman, 
after  church  of  a  summer  evening,  seen  of  every  one, 
and  offers  her  his  arm,  and  they  look  friendly  like  at  each 
other,  and  at  times  he  buys  her  a  present  at  the  fair,  a 
ribbon,  or  a  bit  of  jewellery  —  I  cannot  say  I  have  heard, 
and  I  don't  say  that  I  have  seen,  —  when,  I  say,  dearly 
beloved  brethren,  a  young  chap  like  this  goes  on  for  more 
than  a  year,  and  lets  everybody  fancy  they  are  going  to 
be  married,  —  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  at  times  a  young 
chap  may  see  a  nice  lass  and  admire  her,  and  talk  to  her 
a  bit,  and  then  go  away  and  forget  her  —  there's  no  dis- 
simulation in  that;  but  when  it  goes  on  a  long  time,  and 
he  makes  her  to  think  he's  very  sweet  upon  her,  and  that 
he  can't  live  without  her,  and  he  gives  her  ribbons  and 
jewellery  that  I  can't  particularise,  because  I  haven't 
seen  them  —  when  a  young  chap,  dearly  beloved  brethren 

"  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  becoming  more  and  more 

involved.     The  parties  preached  about  were  in  the  church, 

lOO 


Human   Divines 

and  the  young  man  was  just  under  the  pulpit,  with  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  congregation  turned  on  him.  The  ser- 
mon had  its  effect  —  he  reverted  to  his  love,  and,  without 
any  dissimulation,  we  trust,  married  her. 

The  Christmas  and  the  Easter  decorations  in  this  old 
fellow's  church  were  very  wonderful.  There  was  a 
Christmas  text,  and  that  did  service  also  for  Easter.  The 
decorating  of  the  church  was  intrusted  to  the  school- 
master, a  lame  man,  and  his  wife,  and  consisted  in  a  holly 
or  laurel  crutch  set  up  on  one  side  of  the  chancel,  and  a 
"jaws  of  death"  on  the  other.  This  appalling  symbol 
was  constructed  like  a  set  of  teeth  in  a  dentist's  shop- 
window  —  the  fangs  were  made  of  snipped  or  indented 
white  drawing-paper,  and  the  gums  of  over-lapping  laurel 
leaves  stitched  down  one  on  the  other. 

A  very  good  story  was  told  of  this  old  parson,  which  is, 
I  believe,  quite  true.  He  was  invited  to  spend  a  couple 
of  days  with  a  great  squire  some  miles  off.  He  went, 
stayed  his  allotted  time,  and  disappeared.  Two  days 
later  the  lady  of  the  house,  happening  to  go  into  the  ser- 
vants' hall  in  the  evening,  found,  to  her  amazement,  her 
late  guest  —  there.  After  he  had  finished  his  visit  up-stairs, 
at  the  invitation  of  the  butler  he  spent  the  same  time  below. 
"Like  Persephone,  madam,"  he  said,  —  "half  my  time 
above,  half  in  the  nether  world." 

In  the  matter  of  personal  neatness  he  left  much  to  be 
desired.     His  walled  garden  was  famous  for  its  jargonelle 

pears.     Lady  X ,  one  day  coming  over,  said  to  him, 

"Will  you  come  back  in  my  carriage  with  me,  and  dine 
at  the  Park  ?  You  can  stay  the  night,  and  be  driven  home 
to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  my  lady,  delighted.     I  will  bring  with  me 
some  jargonelles.     I'll  go  and  fetch  them." 
lOI 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

Presently  he  returned  with  a  httle  open  basket  and 

some  fine  pears  in  it.     Lady  X looked  at  him,  with  a 

troubled  expression  in  her  sweet  face.  The  rector  was 
hardly  in  dining  suit;  moreover,  there  was  apparent  no 
equipment  for  the  night. 

"Dear  Mr.  M ,  will  you  not  really  want  something 

further?     You  will  dine  with  us,  and  sleep  the  night." 

A  vacant  expression  stole  over  his  countenance,  as  he 
retired  into  himself  in  thought.  Presently  a  flash  of 
intelligence  returned,  and  he  said  with  briskness,  "Ah! 
to  be  sure;  I'll  go  and  fetch  two  or  three  more  jargonelles." 

A  kind,  good-hearted  man  the  scholar-parson  was, 
always  ready  to  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  at  a  tale  of 
distress,  but  quite  incapable  of  understanding  that  his 
parishioners  might  have  spiritual  as  well  as  material 
requirements.  I  remember  a  case  of  a  very  similar  man 
—  a  fellow  of  his  College,  and  professor  at  Cambridge  — 
to  whom  a  young  student  ventured  to  open  some  difi&- 
culties  and  doubts  that  tortured  him.  "Difficulties! 
doubts!"  echoed  the  old  gentleman.  "Take  a  couple  of 
glasses  of  port.  If  that  don't  dispel  them,  take  two  more, 
and  continue  the  dose  till  you  have  found  ease  of  mind." 

iS.  Baring-Gould 

The  Rev.  Philip  Skelton      ^ci.,        ^^^^        <>>.        -"^^ 

THE  strict  attention  that  Mr.  Skelton  paid  to  the  duties 
of  his  profession  prevented  his  being  engaged  in  the 
softer  concerns  of  human  life.  I  question  if  he  was  ever 
deeply  in  love,  though  it  is  certain  that  he  made  some 
advances  in  the  passion.  He  seems  indeed  to  have  been 
proof  against  the  fascinating  charms  of  the  fair,  whose 
gentle  weapons  have  conquered  the  greatest  heroes  and 

102 


Human   Divines 

philosophers,  and  made  them  submit  to  their  yoke.  Mona- 
ghan  was  the  scene  of  his  attempts  in  love,  and  possibly 
a  short  account  of  these  may  not  be  unentertaining  to  my 
readers. 

He  was  once  courting  a  young  lady,  and  when  they 
were  just  on  the  point  of  being  married,  she  said  to  him 
one  day,  "My  dear,  as  you  are  but  a  poor  Curate,  how 
will  you  provide  for  our  children?"  —  "WTiy,  my  love," 
he  answered,  "suppose  we  have  three  sons,  I'll  make 
one  of  them  a  weaver,  another  a  tailor,  and  the  third  a 
shoemaker;  very  honest  trades,  my  jewel,  and  thus  they 
may  earn  their  bread  by  their  industry."  —  "Oh!"  she 
replied,  "never  will  I  bring  forth  children  for  such  mean 
occupations."  —  "Well  then,"  said  he,  "I  have  no  other 
expectations,  and  of  consequence  )-ou  and  I  will  not  be 
joined  together,  for  between  your  pride  and  his  poverty 
poor  Phil  Skelton  will  never  be  racked."  Thus  the  match 
was  broken  oflF. 

Soon  after  this  one  S S ,  a  fine  fellow  with  a 

gold -laced  waistcoat,  paid  his  addresses  to  the  young 
lady,  who  was  so  much  captivated  by  his  appearance, 
and  especially  with  the  waistcoat,  that  she  instantly 
married  him  without  once  enquiring  how  he  would  pro- 
vide for  her  children.  However,  they  lived  very  unhappily ; 
he  starved  her,  and  she  in  turn  was  guilty  both  of  drunken- 
ness and  adultery.  Skelton  often  thanked  God  he  did 
not  marry  her,  observing  that  he  had  a  fortunate  escape, 
for  she  would  surely  have  broken  his  heart.  If  she  had 
married  him,  he  said,  she  would  have  got  rough  plenty; 
but  she  preferred  the  man  with  the  gold -laced  waistcoat, 
and  was  thus  deceived  by  outward  show. 

He  paid  his  addresses  once,  he  told  mc,  to  a  young  ladv^ 
who  in  her  conversation  with  him  l^egan  to  talk  boastingly 

103 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

of  her  great  family,  saying  what  grand  relations  she  had, 
and  the  Hke.  "Upon  this,"  he  remarked  to  me,  "I  found 
she  would  not  answer  for  a  wife  to  me ;  because  she  would 
despise  me  on  account  of  my  family,  as  my  father  was  only 
a  plain  countryman,  and  therefore  I  thought  it  best  to 
discontinue  my  addresses  for  the  future." 

Again,  he  was  courting  another  young  lady,  and  was 
just  going  to  be  married  to  her;  when  happening  to  find 
a  gay  airy  young  fellow  in  a  private  room  with  her,  he,  in 
his  rage,  took  the  beau  with  one  of  his  hands  and  held 
him  up  before  her,  as  you  would  a  puppet,  then  carrying 
him  to  the  stair  let  him  drop.  When  he  had  thus  punished 
the  gentleman,  he  broke  off  from  the  lady  in  a  passion, 
and  would  never  visit  her  again  in  the  character  of  a  lover. 
His  brother  Thomas  strove  to  dissuade  him  from  this 
resolution,  telling  him  he  ought  to  think  more  of  the  young 
lady  for  having  so  many  admirers.  But  his  advice  did 
not  avail,  as  he  observed,  if  she  were  fond  of  him,  she 
would  have  no  familiar  intercourse  with  another. 

He  seemed,  indeed,  once  to  have  had  an  ardent  passion 
for  a  Miss  Richardson,  for  in  his  eagerness  to  see  her, 
he  rode  across  the  lake  of  Coothill,  in  the  great  frosts, 
without  perceiving  he  was  riding  on  ice.  However, 
we  may  suppose  his  fondness  soon  began  to  cool.  His 
situation  of  curate,  I  should  think,  made  him  cautious 
of  plunging  too  deep  into  love.  He  knew  that  marriage 
must  have  confined  him  still  more  in  his  charities,  which 
were  always  nearest  to  his  heart;  unless  he  could  get  a 
good  fortune  by  it,  a  boon  seldom  conferred  on  one  of  his 
station.  He  therefore  strove  to  keep  down  his  passions 
by  abstinence,  and  lived  for  two  years  at  Monaghan  entirely 
on  vegetables.  I  was  told  indeed  that  he  would  once 
have  been  married  to  a  young  lady  had  he  not  been  dis- 
104 


Human   Divines 

appointed  of  a  living  that  was  promised  to  him.  He  had, 
however,  pure  and  reiined  notions  of  love;  nor  did  he, 
like  some  others,  affect  to  ridicule  that  gentle  passion. 
He  thought  it  cruel  of  a  parent  obstinately  to  thwart  the 
affections  of  a  child;  unless  there  was  a  glaring  impro- 
priety in  the  choice.  "Poor  things"  (he  used  to  say  of 
two  lovers),  "since  they  love  one  another,  they  should 
let  them  come  together,  it  is  a  pity  to  keep  them 
asunder."  .  .  . 

In  compliance  with  his  desire  I  waited  on  him  at  his 
lodgings,  and  found  him  in  his  bed-chamber,  where  he 
always  sat  unless  when  he  had  company  he  could  not 
make  free  with.  He  was  a  remarkably  tall  large  man; 
his  eyebrows  were  quite  gray;  his  shoulders  somewhat 
bent  by  age;  and  his  bones  nearly  twice  the  size  of  an 
ordinar}'  man.  He  wore  a  brown  wig,  a  blue  coat  with 
black  cuffs,  the  breast  of  which  was  covered  over  with 
snuff,  black  velvet  waistcoat  and  breeches,  yarn  stockings 
made  of  black  wool,  and  small  silver  buckles  in  his  shoes. 
His  countenance  showed  he  had  been  handsome  in  his 
youth,  and  visibly  displayed  in  it  that  genuine  philan- 
thropy which  he  possessed  in  such  an  eminent  degree. 
He  received  me  with  kindness  free  from  ostentation;  but 
Ijegan  soon  to  rally  me  for  having  bright  steel  buttons  on 
my  coat,  which  he  thought  too  gay  for  one  of  a  bachelor's 
standing  in  the  University.  "You're  finely  dressed," 
he  observed,  "with  your  fine  bright  buttons;  I  thought 
you  were  a  man  of  sense  and  a  scholar,  but  I  have  been 
deceived,  I  fmd:  I  believe  you  are  but  an  indifferent  sort 
of  a  body;  I  always  judge  a  man  by  his  buttons."  How- 
ever, in  a  few  minutes  he  became  more  civil,  and  after 
conversing  on  different  subjects  we  parted  on  good  terms. 
I  renewed  my  visits,  to  which  I  was  enticed  by  his  agree- 
105 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

able  and  instructive  conversation;  but  took  care  never 
to  shew  him  the  bright  buttons  again.  His  manner  of 
Hving  then  was  simple  and  regular.  He  rose  at  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  took  a  breakfast  of  herb-tea, 
having  not  drunk  foreign  tea  for  thirty  years  before. 
Then  he  passed  about  an  hour  at  prayer.  After  prayer 
he  read  two  chapters  in  the  Old  Testament,  two  in  the  New, 
and  four  Psalms,  which  latter,  as  he  told  us,  conduced  to 
enliven  his  piety.  Then  he  generally  amused  himself 
with  entertaining  books  until  dinner,  and  after  spending 
an  hour  at  it,  read  until  nine  o'clock  at  night,  when  he 
took  a  supper  of  bread  and  whey,  and  then  summoned 
the  people  he  lived  with  to  family-prayer;  after  which 
he  employed  himself  at  his  books  until  eleven,  and  went 
to  bed.  His  bed-chamber  was  like  a  stove,  he  kept  it  so 
close  and  burnt  in  it,  except  in  the  heat  of  summer,  night 
and  day  such  huge  fires. 

Though  Mr.  Skelton  was  usually  employed  in  the 
serious  business  of  his  profession,  he  could  now  and  then 
relax  from  such  severity,  and  partake  of  innocent  amuse- 
ments and  exercise.  There  were  few,  it  appears,  equal 
to  him  in  the  manly  exercises;  for  in  size,  strength,  and 
activity,  he  was  superior  to  most  men.  He  told  me  he 
has  lifted  up  some  huge  weights,  which  no  ordinary  person 
could  move.  In  the  walks  of  the  plantation  at  Monaghan, 
he  threw  the  sledge  and  stone,  played  long  bullets  on  the 
public  roads,  and  performed  many  other  manly  exercises. 
He  could  wind  a  fifty-pound  stone  round  his  head  with- 
out any  difficulty,  which  shews  the  amazing  strength  of 
his  arms.  He  found  it  requisite  indeed,  even  then,  to 
make  use  of  his  hands  to  chastise  the  insolent. 

One  Sunday,  after  church,  riding  along  with  a  lady  to 
a  gentleman's  seat  some  distance  from  Monaghan,  he 
io6 


Human   Divines 

came  up  to  a  parcel  of  tinkers  on  the  road,  whom  he 
heard  uttering  horrid  oaths,  for  which  he  rebuked  one  of 
them  in  particular  in  these  words,  "Sirrah,  it  would  be 
more  fit  you  had  been  at  divine  ser\^ice  than  be  thus  pro- 
faning the  Lord's  day."  The  fellow  gave  him  a  saucy 
answer,  and  continued  cursing  as  before.  He  then 
threatened  to  correct  him  if  he  would  not  desist,  which 
made  him  more  profane  and  abusive.  Skelton  could 
bear  no  longer,  but  leaped  off  his  horse  and  struck  him; 
the  rest  took  his  part,  but  he  soon  beat  him  and  the  whole 
troop  of  tinkers.  He  thus  made  them  sensible  of  their 
crime  by  the  only  argument  by  which  a  tinker  could  feel 
the  force.  Then  mounting  his  horse,  he  rode  hastily  oflf 
with  the  lady  to  the  gentleman's  house  to  which  he  was 
going,  that  he  might  be  there  before  they  should  hear  of  it. 
But  with  all  his  speed  the  news  travelled  there  before  him, 
and  on  entering,  they  complimented  him  on  his  bo.xing 
and  beating  the  tinkers. 

He  exerted  his  courage  again  on  a  similar  occasion. 
A  young  officer,  proud  of  his  red  coat,  which  he  had  just 
put  on,  came  into  the  hall  of  an  inn  (while  he,  being  then 
on  a  journey,  happened  to  be  in  the  parlour,)  and  to 
shew  his  cleverness,  began  reproving  the  waiter,  and 
uttered  a  volley  of  horrid  oaths.  The  waiter  retaliated, 
and  thus  they  were  going  on,  when  Skclton,  coming  out 
of  the  parlour,  told  the  officer  that  he  was  a  clergyman, 
and  that  it  was  very  offensive  to  him  to  hear  such  horrid 
swearing  and  begged  he  would  desist.  The  officer  then 
said  to  him,  "You  scoundrel  Curate,  what  is  it  to  you?" 
Skclton  gravely  replied,  "Young  man,  this  is  not  proper 
language  to  one  of  my  profession,  merely  for  giving  you 
good  advice." 

" you  puppy  you"   (for  he  thought  Skelton  was 

107 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

afraid),  "you  deserve  to  be  kicked  for  your  impertinence ;  " 
and  then  he  uttered  some  blasphemous  oaths.  "Well, 
Sir,"  said  Skelton,  "since  fair  means  will  avail  nothing,  I 
will  try  what  foul  can  do."  Upon  this  he  fell  to  him  with 
his  fists,  and  cuffed  him  through  the  hall  of  the  inn,  and 
soon  cooled  the  Captain's  courage,  and  made  him  quiet 
and  submissive.  Thus  he  chastised  the  military  man  for 
his  profaneness,  exerting  his  valour  in  the  service  of  God 
and  religion. 

Robert  Lynam 

The  Rev.  R.  S.  Hawker  -ciK         ■<;>         ^^^         'vrv 

*"  I  ""HE  generosity  of  the  vicar  to  the  poor  knew  no  bounds. 
-*•  It  was  not  always  discreet,  but  his  compassionate  heart 
could  not  listen  to  a  tale  of  suffering  unaffected;  nay, 
more,  the  very  idea  that  others  were  in  want  impelled  him 
to  seek  them  out  at  all  times,  to  relieve  their  need. 

On  cold  winter  nights,  if  he  felt  the  frost  to  be  very 
keen,  the  idea  would  enter  his  head  that  such  and  such 
persons  had  not  above  one  blanket  on  their  beds,  or  that 
they  had  gone,  without  anything  to  warm  their  vitals,  to 
the  chill  damp  attics  where  they  slept.  Then  he  would 
stamp  about  the  house,  collecting  warm  clothing  and 
blankets,  bottles  of  wine,  and  any  food  he  could  find  in 
the  larder,  and  laden  with  them,  attended  by  a  servant, 
go  forth  on  his  rambles,  and  knock  up  the  cottagers,  that 
he  might  put  extra  blankets  on  their  beds,  or  cheer  them 
with  port  wine  and  cold  pie.  The  following  graphic 
description  of  one  of  these  night  missions  is  given  in  the 
words  of  an  old  workman  named  Vinson. 

"It  was  a  very  cold  night  in  the  winter  of  1874-75,  about 
half-past  nine;  he  called  me  into  the  house,  and  said: 
108 


Human   Divines 

'The  poor  folk  up  at  Shop  will  all  perish  this  very  night 
of  cold.  John  Ode  is  ill,  and  cannot  go :  can  you  get  there 
alive?' 

'"If  you  please,  sir,  I  will,  if  you'll  allow  me,'  I 
said. 

"'Take  them  these  four  bottles  of  brandy,'  he  says; 
ind  he  brought  up  four  bottles  with  never  so  much  as  the 
corks  drawed.  'Now,'  says  he,  'what  will  you  have  your- 
self?' And  I  says,  '  Gin,  if  you  please,  sir,'  I  says.  And 
he  poured  me  out  gin  and  water;  and  then  he  gi'ed  me 
a  lemonade  bottle  of  gin  for  me  to  put  in  my  side-pocket. 
'That'll  keep  you  alive,'  he  says,  'before  you  come  back.' 
So  he  fulled  me  up  before  I  started,  and  sent  me  oflf  to 
Shop,  to  four  old  people's  houses,  with  a  bottle  of  brandy 
for  each.  And  then  he  says:  'There's  two  shillings  for 
yourself;  and  you  keep  pulling  at  that  bottle  and  you'll 
keep  yourself  alive  afore  you  come  back.'  So  I  went  there, 
and  delivered  the  bottles;  and  I'd  had  enough  before  I 
started  to  bring  me  home  again,  so  I  didn't  uncork  my 
bottle  of  gin. 

"  And  it  isn't  once,  it's  scores  o'  times,  he's  looked  out  o' 
window,  after  I've  going  home  at  night,  and  shouted  to 
me:  'Here,  stay!  come  back,  Vinson,'  and  he's  gone  into 
the  larder,  and  cut  off  great  pieces  of  meat,  and  sent  me 
with  them,  and  p'raps  brandy  or  wine,  to  some  poor  soul; 
and  he  always  gi'ed  me  a  shilling,  either  then  or  next  day, 
for  myself,  besides  meat  and  drink." 

"They  are  crushed  down,  my  poor  people,"  he  would 
say  with  energy,  stamping  about  his  room  —  "ground 
down  with  poverty,  with  a  wretched  wage,  the  hateful 
truck  system,  till  they  arc  degraded  in  mind  and  body." 
It  was  a  common  saying  of  his,  "If  I  eat  and  drink,  and 
see  my  poor  hunger  and  thirst,  I  am  not  a  minister  of 
109 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Christ,  but  a  lion  that  lurketh  in  his  den  to  ravish  the 
poor." 

The  monetary  value  of  the  living  was  £^6^.     He  wrote 
up  over  the  porch  of  his  vicarage  — 

A  house,  a  glebe,  a  pound  a  day, 
A  pleasant  place  to  watch  and  pray: 
Be  true  to  Church,  be  kind  to  poor, 
O  minister,  for  evermore ! 

Mr.  Robert  Stephen  Hawker  was  a  man  of  the  most 
unbounded  hospitality.  Every  one  who  visited  Mor- 
wenstow  met  with  a  warm  welcome :  everything  his  larder 
and  dairy  contained  was  produced  in  the  most  lavish 
profusion.  The  best  that  his  house  could  afford  was 
freely  given.  On  one  occasion,  when  about  to  be  visited 
by  a  nephew  and  his  wife,  he  sent  all  the  way  to  Tavistock, 
about  thirty  miles,  for  a  leg  and  shoulder  of  Dartmoor 
mutton.  If  he  saw  friends  coming  along  the  loop-drive 
which  descended  to  his  vicarage,  he  would  run  to  the  door, 
with  a  sunny  smile  of  greeting,  and  both  hands  extended 
in  welcome,  and  draw  them  in  to  break  his  bread  and  par- 
take of  his  salt.  Sometimes  his  larder  was  empty,  he 
had  fed  so  many  visitors;  and  he  would  say  sorrowfully: 
"There  is  nothing  but  ham  and  eggs:  I  give  thee  all,  I  can 
no  more."  And  visitors  were  most  numerous  in  summer. 
In  one  of  his  letters  he  speaks  of  having  entertained  one 
hundred  and  fifty  in  a  summer.  His  drawing-room  on 
a  summer  afternoon  was  often  so  crowded  with  visitors 
from  Bude,  Clovelly,  Bideford,  Stratton  and  elsewhere, 
come  to  tea,  that  it  was  difificult  to  move  in  it.  "Look 
here,  my  dear,"  he  would  say  to  a  young  wife,  "I  will  tell 
you  how  to  make  tea.  Fill  the  pot  with  leaves  to  the  top, 
and  pour  the  water  into  the  cracks."  His  tea  was  always 
no 


Human    Divines 

the  best  Lapsing  Souchong  from  Twining's.  He  was  a 
wretched  carver.  He  talked  and  laughed,  and  hacked 
the  meat  at  the  same  time,  cutting  here,  there  and  any- 
where, in  search  of  the  tenderest  pieces  for  his  guests. 
"One  day  that  we  went  over  to  call  on  him  unexpectedly," 
says  a  friend,  "he  made  us  stay  for  lunch.  He  was  in 
the  greatest  excitement  and  delight  at  our  visit,  and  in 
the  flurry  decanted  a  bottle  of  brandy  and  filled  our  wine- 
glasses with  it,  mistaking  it  for  sherry.  The  joint  was  a 
fore-quarter  of  lamb.  It  puzzled  him  extremely.  At 
last,  losing  all  jjatience,  he  grasped  the  leg-bone  with  one 
hand,  the  shoulder  with  the  fork  driven  up  to  the  hilt 
through  it,  and  tore  it  by  main  force  asunder." 

Another  friend  describes  a  "high  tea"  at  his  house. 
A  whole  covey  of  partridges  was  brought  on  table.  He 
drove  his  fork  into  the  breast  of  each,  then  severed  the 
legs  by  cutting  through  the  back,  and  so  helped  each 
person  to  the  whole  breast  and  wings.  The  birds  had 
not  been  cooked  by  an  experienced  hand,  and  properly 
trussed.  The  whole  covey  lay  on  their  l)acks  with  their 
legs  in  the  air,  presenting  the  drollest  appearance  when 
the  cover  —  large  enough  for  a  sirloin  of  beef  —  was  re- 
moved from  the  dish. 

Mr.  Hawker,  as  has  been  already  intimated,  was  rather 
peculiar  in  his  dress.  At  first,  soon  after  his  induction 
to  Morwenstow,  he  wore  his  cassock;  but  in  time  aban- 
doned this  inconvenient  garb,  in  which  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  scramble  about  his  cliffs.  Hi  then  adopted 
a  claret-coloured  coat,  with  long  tails.  He  had  the  greatest 
aversion  to  anything  black:  the  only  black  things  he 
would  wear  were  his  boots.  These  clarct-colourcd  coats 
would  button  over  the  breast,  Ijut  were  generally  worn  open, 
displaying  beneath  a  knitted  blue  fisherman's  jersey. 
Ill 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

At  his  side  just  where  the  Lord's  side  was  pierced,  a  little 
red  cross  was  woven  into  the  jersey.  He  wore  fishing- 
boots  reaching  above  his  knee. 

The  claret-coloured  cassock  coats,  when  worn  out, 
were  given  to  his  servant-maids,  who  wore  them  as  morn- 
ing dresses  when  going  about  their  dirty  work. 

"See  there!  the  parson  is  washing  potatoes!"  or  "See 
there !  the  parson  is  feeding  the  pigs !"  would  be  exclaimed 
by  villagers,  as  they  saw  his  servant-girls  engaged  on  their 
work,  in  their  master's  coats. 

At  first  he  went  about  in  a  college  cap ;  but  this  speedily 
made  way  for  a  pink  or  plum-coloured  beaver  hat  with- 
out a  brim,  the  colour  of  which  rapidly  faded  to  a  tint  of 
pink,  the  blue  having  disappeared.  When  he  put  on  coat, 
jersey,  or  hat  he  wore  it  till  it  was  worn  out:  he  had  no 
best  suit. 

Once  he  had  to  go  to  Hartland,  to  the  funeral  of  a  relative. 
On  the  way  he  had  an  accident  —  his  carriage  upset, 
and  he  was  thrown  out.  When  he  arrived  at  Hartland, 
his  relations  condoled  with  him  on  his  upset.  "Do, 
Hawker,  let  me  find  you  a  new  hat :  in  your  fall  you  have 
knocked  the  brim  off  yours,"  said  one. 

"My  dear ,"  he  answered,  "priests  of  the  Holy 

Eastern  Church  wear  no  brims  to  their  hats;  and  I  wear 
none,  to  testify  the  connection  of  the  Cornish  Church  with 
the  East,  before  ever  Augustine  set  foot  in  Kent."  And 
he  attended  the  funeral  in  his  brimless  hat. 

He  wore  one  of  these  peculiar  hats,  bleached  almost 
white,  at  the  funeral  of  his  first  wife,  in  1863,  and  could 
hardly  be  persuaded  to  allow  the  narrowest  possible  band 
of  black  crape  to  be  pinned  round  it. 

The  pink  hats  were,  however,  abandoned,  partly  be- 
cause they,  would  not  keep  their  colour;  and  a  priest's 
112 


Human   Divines 

wide-awake,  claret-coloured  like  the  coat,  was  adopted  in 
its  place. 

"My  coat,"  said  he,  when  asked  by  a  lady  why  he 
wore  one  of  such  a  cut  and  colour,  "my  coat  is  that  of  an 
Armenian  archimandrite."  But  this  he  said  only  from 
his  love  of  hoaxing  persons  who  asked  him  impertinent 
questions. 

When  Mr.  Hawker  went  up  to  London  to  be  married 
the  second  time,  he  lost  his  hat,  which  was  carried  away 
by  the  wind,  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window  of  the  train, 
to  become,  perhaps,  an  inmate  of  a  provincial  museum 
as  a  curiosity.  He  arrived  hatless  in  town  after  dark. 
He  tied  a  large  crimson  silk  handkerchief  over  his  head, 
and  thus  attired  paced  up  and  down  the  street  for  two 
hours  before  his  lodging,  in  great  excitement  at  the  thought 
of  the  change  in  his  prospects  which  would  dawn  with 
the  morrow.  I  must  leave  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
the  perplexity  of  the  policeman  at  the  corner  over  the  ex- 
traordinary figure  in  claret-coloured  clerical  coat,  wading- 
boots  up  to  his  hips,  blue  knitted  jersey,  and  red  hand- 
kerchief bound  round  his  head.  His  gloves  were  crimson. 
He  wore  these  in  church  as  well  as  elsewhere. 

In  the  dark  chancel,  lighted  only  dimly  through  the 
stained  east  window,  hidden  behind  a  close-grated  screen, 
the  vicar  was  invisible  when  performing  the  service,  till 
having  shouted  "Thomas!"  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  two 
blood-red  hands  were  thrust  through  the  screen  with 
offertory  bags,  in  which  alms  were  to  be  collected  by  the 
churchwarden  who  answered  the  familiar  call.  Or,  the 
first  appearance  of  the  vicar  took  place  after  the  Nicenc 
Creed,  when  a  crimson  hand  was  seen  gliding  up  the 
t)anister  of  the  pulpit,  to  be  followed  by  his  body,  painfully 
worming  its  way  through  an  aperture  in  the  screen,  meas- 
I  113 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

uring  sixteen  inches  only;  "the  camel  getting  at  length 
through  the  eye  of  the  needle,"  as  Mr.  Hawker  called  the 
proceeding. 

In  church  he  wore  a  little  black  cap  over  his  white  hair, 
rendered  necessary  by  the  cold  and  damp  of  the  decaying 
old  church. 

At  his  side  he  carried  a  bunch  of  seals  and  medals. 
One  of  his  seals  bore  the  fish  surrounded  by  a  serpent 
biting  its  tail,  and  the  legend  ix^us.  Another  bore  the 
pentacle,  with  the  name  of  Jehovah  in  Hebrew  characters 
in  the  centre.  This  was  Solomon's  seal.  "With  this 
seal,"  he  said,  "I  can  command  the  devils." 

His  command  of  the  devil  was  not  always  successful. 
He  built  a  barn  on  the  most  exposed  and  elevated  point 
of  the  glebe;  and  when  a  neighbour  expostulated  with 
him,  and  assured  him  that  the  wind  would  speedily  wreck 
it,  "No,"  he  answered:  "I  have  placed  the  sign  of  the 
cross  on  it,  and  so  the  devil  cannot  touch  it." 

A  few  weeks  after,  a  gale  from  the  south-west  tore  the 
roof  off. 

"The  devil,"  was  his  explanation,  "was  so  enraged  at 
seeing  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  my  barn,  that  he  rent  it 
and  wrecked  it." 

A  man  whom  he  had  saved  from  a  wreck,  in  gratitude 
sent  him  afterwards,  from  the  diggings  in  California,  a 
nugget  of  gold  he  had  found.  This  Mr.  Hawker  had 
struck  into  a  medal  or  seal,  and  wore  always  at  his  side 
with  the  bunch.  Attached  to  the  buttonhole  of  his  coat 
was  invariably  a  pencil  suspended  by  a  piece  of  string. 

He  was  a  well-built  man,  tall,  broad,  with  a  face  full  of 

manly  beauty,  a  nobly  cut  profile,  dark,  full  eyes,  and 

long,  snowy  hair.     His  expression  was  rapidly  changing, 

like  the  sea  as  seen   from   his  cliffs;     now  flashing  and 

114 


Human   Divines 

rippling  with  smiles,  and  anon  overcast  and  sad,  some- 
times stormy. 

He  was  usually  followed  to  church  by  nine  or  ten  cats, 
which  entered  the  chancel  with  him  and  careered  about 
it  during  service. 

Whilst  saying  prayers  Mr.  Hawker  would  pat  his  cats 
or  scratch  them  under  their  chins.  Originally  ten  cats 
accompanied  him  to  church;  but  one,  having  caught, 
killed  and  eaten  a  mouse  on  a  Sunday,  was  excommuni- 
cated, and  from  that  day  was  not  allowed  again  within 
the  sanctuary. 

A  friend  tells  me  that  on  attending  Morwenstow  Church 
one  Sunday  morning,  nothing  amazed  him  more  than  to 
see  a  little  dog  sitting  upon  the  altar  step  behind  the  cele- 
brant, in  the  position  which  is  usually  attributed  to  a 
deacon  or  a  server.  He  afterwards  spoke  to  Mr.  Hawker 
on  the  subject,  and  asked  him  why  he  did  not  turn  the 
dog  out  of  the  chancel  and  church. 

"Turn  the  dog  out  of  the  ark!"  he  exclaimed:  "all 
animals,  clean  and  unclean,  should  find  there  a  refuge." 

S.  Baring-Gould 


"5 


IX 

THE   LAW 

Henry  Erskine       --o      'o      <:ix      ^:>».      ssy      -:^ 

LET  sparks  and  topers  o'er  their  bottles  sit, 
Toss  bumpers  down,  and  fancy  laughter  wit; 
Let  cautious  plodders,  o'er  their  ledger  pore, 
Note  down  each  farthing  gain'd,  and  wish  it  more; 
Let  lawyers  dream  of  wigs,  poets  of  fame, 
Scholars  look  learn'd,  and  senators  declaim; 
Let  soldiers  stand,  like  targets  in  the  fray. 
Their  lives  just  worth  their  thirteenpence  a-day. 
Give  me  a  nook  in  some  secluded  spot. 
Which  business  shuns,  and  din  approaches  not  — 
Some  snug  retreat,  where  I  may  never  know 
What  Monarch  reigns,  what  Ministers  bestow  — 
A  book  — •  my  slippers  —  and  a  field  to  stroll  in  — 
My  garden-seat  —  an  elbow-chair  to  loll  in  — 
Sunshine,  when  wanted  —  shade,  when  shade  invites, 
With  pleasant  country  laurels,  smells,  and  sights, 
And  now  and  then  a  glass  of  generous  wine, 
Shared  with  a  chatty  friend  of  "auld  langsyne"; 
And  one  companion  more,  for  ever  nigh, 
To  sympathise  in  all  that  passes  by, 
To  journey  with  me  in  the  path  of  life. 
And  share  its  pleasures  and  divide  its  strife. 
ii6 


The   Law 

These  simple  joys,  Eugenius,  let  me  find, 
And  I'll  ne'er  cast  a  lingering  look  behind. 

By  Himself 

Old  Scottish  Judges       "Ci'       <:i>'       -<;iy       ^Cy       ^=cy 


OF  Lord  Gardenstone  (Francis  Garden)  I  have  many 
early  personal  reminiscences,  as  his  property  of 
Johnstone  was  in  the  Howe  of  the  Mearns,  not  far  from 
my  early  home.  He  was  a  man  of  energy,  and  promoted 
improvements  in  the  county  with  skill  and  practical  sagac- 
ity. His  favourite  scheme  was  to  establish  a  flourishing 
town  upon  his  property,  and  he  spared  no  pains  or  expense 
in  promoting  the  importance  of  his  village  of  Laurencekirk. 
He  built  an  excellent  inn,  to  render  it  a  stage  for  posting. 
He  built  and  endowed  an  Episcopal  chapel  for  the  benefit 
of  his  English  immigrants,  in  the  vestry  of  which  he  placed 
a  most  respectable  library,  and  he  encouraged  manufac- 
turers of  all  kinds  to  settle  in  the  place.  Amongst  others  a 
hatter  came  to  reconnoitre,  and  ascertain  its  capabilities 
for  exercising  his  calling.  But  when,  on  going  to  public 
worshij)  on  Sunday  after  his  arrival,  he  found  only  three 
hats  in  the  kirk,  viz.,  the  minister's.  Lord  Gardenstone's, 
and  his  own  —  the  rest  of  the  congregation  all  wearing  the 
old  fiat  Lowland  bonnet  —  he  soon  went  off,  convinced  that 
Laurencekirk  was  no  place  for  hatters  to  thrive  in.  He 
was  much  taken  up  with  his  hotel  or  inn,  and  for  which  he 
provided  a  large  volume  for  receiving  the  written  contribu- 
tions of  travellers  who  frequented  it.  It  was  the  landlady's 
business  to  present  this  volume  to  the  guests,  and  ask  them 
to  write  in  it,  during  the  evenings,  whatever  occurred  to 
their  memory  or  their  imagination.  In  the  mornings  it 
117 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

was  a  favourite  amusement  of  Lord  Gardenstone  to  look  it 
over.  I  recollect  Sir  Walter  Scott  being  much  taken  with 
this  contrivance,  and  his  asking  me  about  it  at  Abbotsford. 
His  son  said  to  him,  "You  should  estabhsh  such  a  book,  sir, 
at  Melrose;"  upon  which  Sir  W.  replied,  "No,  Walter,  I 
should  just  have  to  see  a  great  deal  of  abuse  of  myself." 
On  his  son  deprecating  such  a  result,  and  on  his  observing 
my  surprised  look,  he  answered,  "Well,  well,  I  should  have 
to  read  a  great  deal  of  foolish  praise,  which  is  much  the 
same  thing."  An  amusing  account  is  given  of  the  cause 
of  Lord  Gardenstone  withdrawing  this  volume  from  the 
hotel,  and  of  his  determination  to  submit  it  no  more  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  passing  traveller.  As  Professor 
Stuart  of  Aberdeen  was  passing  an  evening  at  the  inn,  the 
volume  was  handed  to  him,  and  he  wrote  in  it  the  following 
lines,  in  the  style  of  the  prophecies  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer :  — 

Frae  sma'  beginnings  Rome  of  auld 
Became  a  great  imperial  city, 
'Twas  peopled  first,  as  we  are  tauld, 
By  bankrupts,  vagabonds,  banditti. 
Quoth  Thamas,  Then  the  day  may  come, 
When  Laurencekirk  shall  equal  Rome. 

These  lines  so  nettled  Lord  Gardenstone,  that  the  volume 
disappeared,  and  was  never  seen  afterwards  in  the  inn  of 
Laurencekirk.  There  is  another  lingering  reminiscence 
which  I  retain  connected  with  the  inn  at  Laurencekirk. 
The  landlord,  Mr.  Cream,  was  a  man  well  known  through- 
out all  the  county,  and  was  distinguished,  in  his  later  years, 
as  one  of  the  few  men  who  continued  to  wear  a  pigtail.  On 
one  occasion  the  late  Lord  Dunmore  (grandfather  or  great- 
grandfather of  the  present  peer),  who  also  still  wore  his 
queue,  halted  for  a  night  at  Laurencekirk.  On  the  host 
leaving  the  room,  where  he  had  come  to  take  orders  for 
ii8 


The   Law 

supper,  Lord  Dunmore  turned  to  his  valet  and  said, 
"Johnstone,  do  I  look  as  like  a  fool  in  my  pigtail  as  Billy 
Cream  does?"  —  "Much  about  it,  my  lord,"  was  the  valet's 
imperturbable  answer.  "Then,"  said  his  lordship,  "cut 
off  mine  to-morrow  morning  when  I  dress." 

Lord  Gardenstone  seemed  to  have  had  two  favourite 
tastes:  he  indulged  in  the  love  of  pigs  and  the  love  of 
snuff.  He  took  a  young  pig  as  a  pet,  and  it  became  quite 
tame,  and  followed  him  about  like  a  dog.  At  first  the 
animal  shared  his  bed,  but  when,  growing  up  to  advanced 
swinehood,  it  became  unfit  for  such  companionship,  he 
had  it  to  sleep  in  his  room,  in  which  he  made  a  comfortable 
couch  for  it  of  his  own  clothes.  His  snuff  he  kept  not  in 
a  box,  but  in  a  leathern  waist-pocket  made  for  the  purpose. 
He  took  it  in  enormous  quantities,  and  used  to  say  that  if 
he  had  a  dozen  noses  he  would  feed  them  all.  Lord 
Gardenstone  died  1793. 

Lord  Monboddo  (James  Burnet,  Esq.  of  Monboddo)  is 
another  of  the  well-known  members  of  the  Scottish  Bench, 
who  combined,  with  many  eccentricities  of  opinion  and 
habits,  great  learning  and  a  most  amiable  disposition. 
From  his  paternal  property  being  in  the  county  of  Kincar- 
dine, and  Lord  M.  being  a  visitor  at  my  father's  house,  and 
indeed  a  relation  or  clansman,  I  have  many  early  reminis- 
cences of  stories  which  I  have  heard  of  the  learned  judge. 
His  speculations  regarding  the  origin  of  the  human  race 
have,  in  times  past,  excited-much  interest  and  amusement. 
His  theory  was  that  man  emerged  from  a  wild  and  savage 
condition,  much  resembling  that  of  apes ;  that  man  had  then 
a  tail  like  other  animals,  but  which,  by  progressive  civilisa- 
tion and  the  constant  hal)it  of  sillint;,  had  become  obsolete. 
This  theory  produced  many  a  joke  from  facetious  and 
superficial  people,  who  had  never  read  any  of  the  argu- 
119 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

ments  of  an  elaborate  work,  by  which  the  ingenious  and 
learned  author  maintained  his  theory.  Lord  Karnes,  a 
brother  judge,  had  his  joke  on  it.  On  some  occasion  of 
their  meeting,  Lord  Monboddo  was  for  giving  Lord  Kames 
the  precedency.  Lord  K.  declined,  and  drew  back,  saying, 
"By  no  means,  my  lord;  you  may  walk  first,  that  I  may 
see  your  tail."  -1  recollect  Lord  Monboddo's  coming  to 
dine  at  Fasque  caused  a  great  excitement  of  interest  and 
curiosity.  I  was  in  the  nursery,  too  young  to  take  part  in 
the  investigations;  but  my  elder  brothers  were  on  the 
alert  to  watch  his  arrival,  and  get  a  glimpse  of  his  tail. 
Lord  M.  was  really  a  learned  man,  read  Greek  and  Latin 
authors  —  not  as  a  mere  e.xercise  of  classical  scholarship 
—  but  because  he  identified  himself  with  their  philosophical 
opinions,  and  would  have  revived  Greek  customs  and 
modes  of  life.  He  used  to  give  suppers  after  the  manner  of 
the  ancients,  and  used  to  astonish  his  guests  by  the  ancient 
cookery  of  Spartan  broth,  and  of  midsum.  He  was  an 
enthusiastical  Platonist.  On  a  visit  to  Oxford,  he  was 
received  with  great  respect  by  the  scholars  of  the  University, 
who  were  much  interested  in  meeting  with  one  who  had 
studied  Plato,  as  a  pupil  and  follower.  In  accordance  with 
the  old  custom  at  learned  universities.  Lord  Monboddo 
was  determined  to  address  the  Oxonians  in  Latin,  which  he 
spoke  with  much  readiness.  But  they  could  not  stand  the 
numerous  slips  in  prosody.  Lord  Monboddo  shocked  the 
ears  of  the  men  of  Eton  and  of  Winchester  by  dreadful 
false  quantities  —  verse-making  being,  in  Scotland,  then 
quite  neglected,  and  a  matter  little  thought  of  by  the  learned 
judge. 

Lord  Monboddo  was  considered  an  able  lawyer,  and 
on  many  occasions  exhibited  a  very  clear  and  correct  judi- 
cial discernment  of  intricate  cases.     It  was  one  of  his  pe- 

120 


The   Law 

culiarities  that  he  never  sat  on  the  bench  with  his  brother 
judges,  but  always  at  the  clerk's  table.  Different  reasons 
for  this  practice  have  been  given,  but  the  simple  fact  seems 
to  have  been,  that  he  was  deaf,  and  heard  better  at  the 
lower  seat.  His  mode  of  travelling  was  on  horseback. 
He  scorned  carriages,  on  the  ground  of  its  being  unmanly 
to  "sit  in  a  box  drawn  by  brutes."  When  he  went  to 
London  he  rode  the  whole  way.  At  the  same  period,  Mr. 
Barclay  of  Ury  (father  of  the  well-known  Captain  Barclay), 
when  he  represented  Kincardineshire  in  Parliament,  always 
walked  to  London.  He  was  a  very  powerful  man,  and  could 
walk  fifty  miles  a  day,  his  usual  refreshment  on  the  road 
being  a  bottle  of  port  wine,  poured  into  a  bowl,  and  drunk 
off  at  a  draught.  I  have  heard  that  George  III.  was  much 
interested  at  these  performances,  and  said,  "I  ought  to 
be  proud  of  my  Scottish  subjects,  when  my  judges  ride, 
and  my  members  of  Parliament  walk  to  the  metropolis." 

On  one  occasion  of  his  being  in  London,  Lord  Mon- 
boddo  attended  a  trial  in  the  Court  of  King's  Bench.  A 
cry  was  heard  that  the  roof  of  the  court-room  was  giving 
way,  upon  which  judges,  lawyers,  and  people  made  a 
rush  to  get  to  the  door.  Lord  Monboddo  viewed  the 
scene  from  his  comer  with  much  composure.  Being 
deaf  and  short-sighted,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  cause  of 
the  tumult.  The  alarm  proved  a  false  one;  and  on  being 
asked  why  he  had  not  bestirred  himself  to  escape  like  the 
rest,  he  coolly  answered  that  he  supposed  it  was  an  annual 
ceremony  with  which,  as  an  alien  to  the  English  laws,  he  had 
no  concern,  but  which  he  considered  it  interesting  to  witness 
as  a  remnant  of  antifjuity !     Lord  Monboddo  died  1799. 

Lord  Rockvillc  (the  Hon.  Alexander  Gordon,  third  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Aberdeen)  was  a  judge  distinguished  in  his 
day  by  his  ability  and  decorum.     "He  adorned  the  bencli 
121 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

by  the  dignified  manliness  of  his  appearance,  and  polished 
urbanity  of  his  manners."  Like  most  lawyers  of  his  time, 
he  took  his  glass  freely,  and  a  whimsical  account  which 
he  gave,  before  he  was  advanced  to  the  bench,  of  his 
having  fallen  upon  his  face,  after  making  too  free  with 
the  bottle,  was  commonly  current  at  the  time.  Upon  his 
appearing  late  at  a  convivial  club  with  a  most  rueful 
expression  of  countenance,  and  on  being  asked  what  was 
the  matter,  he  exclaimed  with  great  solemnity,  "Gentle- 
men, I  have  just  met  with  the  most  extraordinary  adventure 
that  ever  occurred  to  a  human  being.  As  I  was  walking 
along  the  Grassmarket,  all  of  a  sudden  the  street  rose  up  and 
struck  me  on  the  face."  .He  had,  however,  a  more  serious 
encounter  with  the  street  after  he  was  a  judge.  In  1792, 
his  foot  slipped  as  he  was  going  to  the  Parliament  House ; 
he  broke  his  leg,  was  taken  home,  fevered,  and  died. 

Lord  Braxfield  (Robert  M'  Queen  of  Braxfield)  was  one 
of  the  judges  of  the  old  school,  well  known  in  his  day, 
and  might  be  said  to  possess  all  the  qualities  united,  by 
which  the  class  were  remarkable.  He  spoke  the  broadest 
Scotch.  He  was  a  sound  and  laborious  lawyer.  He  was 
fond  of  a  glass  of  good  claret,  and  had  a  great  fund  of  good 
Scotch  humour.  He  rose  to  the  dignity  of  Justice-Clerk, 
and,  in  consequence,  presided  at  many  important  pohtical 
criminal  trials  about  the  year  1793-4,  such  as  those  of  Muir, 
Palmer,  Skirving,  Margarot,  Gerrold,  etc.  He  conducted 
these  trials  with  much  ability  and  great  firmness,  occasion- 
ally, no  doubt,  with  more  appearance  of  severity  and 
personal  prejudice  than  is  usual  with  the  judges  who  in 
later  times  are  called  on  to  preside  on  similar  occasions. 
The  disturbed  temper  of  the  times  and  the  daring  spirit  of 
the  political  offenders  seemed,  he  thought,  to  call  for  a  bold 
and  fearless  front  on  the  part  of  the  judge,  and  Braxfield 
122 


The  Law 

was  the  man  to  show  it,  both  on  the  bench  and  in  common 
life.     He  met,  however,  sometimes  with  a  spirit  as  bold  as 
his  own  from  the  prisoners  before  him.     When  Skirving 
was  on  trial  for  sedition  he  thought  Braxfield  was  threaten- 
ing him,  and  by  gesture  endeavouring  to  intimidate  him; 
accordingly,    he   boldly   addressed   the   bench:  —  "It    is 
altogether  unavailing  for  your  Lordship  to  menace  me, 
for  I  have  long  learnt  not  to  fear  the  face  of  man."     I 
have  observed  that  he  adhered  to  the  broadest  Scottish 
dialect.     "Hae  ye  ony  coonsel,  man?"  he  said  to  Maurice 
Margarot  (who,  I  believe,  was  an  Englishman).     "No," 
was  the  reply.     "Div  ye  want  to  hae  ony  appinted?" 
"No,"  replied  Margarot;    "I  only  want  an  interpreter  to 
make  me  understand  what  your  Lordship  says."     Brax- 
field had  much  humour,  and  enjoyed  wit  in  others.     He 
was  immensely  delighted  at  a  reply  by  Dr.  M'Cubbin, 
the  minister  of  Bothwell.     Braxfield,  when  Justice-Clerk, 
was  dining  at  Lord  Douglas',  and  observed  there  was  only 
port  upon  the  table.     In  his  usual  offhand  brusque  manner, 
he  demanded  of  the  noble  host  if  "there  was  nae  claret  i'  the 
castle."     "Yes,"  said  Lord  Douglas;   "but  my  butler  tells 
me  it  is  not  good."     "Let's  pree't,"  said  Braxfield  in  his 
favourite  dialect.     A  bottle  was  produced,  and  declared 
by  all  present  to  be  quite  excellent.     "Noo,  minister," 
said  the  old  judge,  addressing  Dr.  M'Cubbin,  who  was 
celebrated  as  a  wit  in  his  day,  "as  afama  clamosa  has  gone 
forth  against  this  wine,  I  propose  that  you  absolve  it,"  — 
playing  upon  the  terms  made  use  of  in  the  Scottish  Church 
Courts.    "Ay,  my  Lord,"  said  the  minister,  "you  are  first- 
rate  authority  for  a  case  of  civil  or  criminal  law,  but  you 
do  not  quite  understand  our  Church  Court  practice.     We 
never  absolve  till  after  three  several  appearances.''^     The 
wit  and  the  condition  of  aljsolution  were  alike  relished 

12.5 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

by  the  judge.  Lord  Braxfield  closed  a  long  and  useful 
life  in  1799. 

Of  Lord  Hermand  we  have  spoken  on  several  occasions, 
and  his  name  has  become  in  some  manner  identified  w^ith 
that  conviviality  which  marked  almost  as  a  characteristic 
the  Scottish  bench  of  his  time.  He  gained,  however, 
great  distinction  as  a  judge,  and  was  a  capital  lawyer. 
When  at  the  bar,  Lords  Newton  and  Hermand  were  great 
friends,  and  many  were  the  convivial  meetings  they  enjoyed 
together.  But  Lord  Hermand  outlived  all  his  old  last- 
century  contemporaries,  and  formed  with  Lord  Balgray 
what  we  may  consider  the  connecting  links  between  the  past 
and  the  present  race  of  Scottish  lawyers. 

We  could  scarcely  perhaps  offer  a  more  marked  difference 
between  habits  once  tolerated  on  the  bench  and  those  which 
now  distinguish  the  august  scat  of  senators  of  justice  than 
by  quoting,  from  Kay's  Portraits,  vol.  ii.  p.  278,  a  sally  of  a 
Lord  of  Session  of  those  days,  which  he  played  off,  when 
sitting  as  judge,  upon  a  young  friend  whom  he  was  deter- 
mined to  frighten.  "On  one  occasion,  a  young  counsel 
was  addressing  him  on  some  not  very  important  point  that 
had  arisen  in  the  division  of  a  common  (or  commonty, 
according  to  law  phraseology),  when  having  made  some 
bold  averment, the  judge  exclaimed,  'That's  a  lee,  Jemmie.' 
'My  lord!'  ejaculated  the  amazed  barrister.  'Ay,  ay, 
Jemmie;  I  see  by  your  face  ye're  leein'.'  'Indeed,  my 
lord,  I  am  not.'  'Dinna  tell  me  that;  it's  no  in  your  me- 
morial (brief)  —  awa  wi'  you;'  and,  overcome  with  aston- 
ishment and  vexation,  the  discomfited  barrister  left  the  bar. 
The  judge  thereupon  chuckled  with  infinite  delight;  and 
beckoning  to  the  clerk  who  attended  on  the  occasion,  he 

said,  'Are  ye  no  Rabbie  H 's  man?'     'Yes,  my  lord.' 

'Was  na  Jemmie leein'?'     'Oh  no,  my  lord.'     'Ye're 

124 


The  Law 

quite  sure?'  'Oh  yes.'  'Then  just  write  out  what  you 
want,  and  I'll  sign  it;  my  faith,  but  I  made  Jemmie  stare.' 
So  the  decision  was  dictated  by  the  clerk,  and  duly  signed  by 
the  judge,  who  left  the  bench  highly  diverted  with  the 
fright  he  had  given  his  young  friend."  Such  scenes  en- 
acted in  Court  now  would  astonish  the  present  generation, 
both  of  lawyers  and  of  suitors. 

Dean  Ramsay 

II 

IN  private  life,  and  especially  at  the  convivial  board, 
Lord  Hermand  was  — 

"The  prince  of  good  fellows  and  king  of  old  men." 

He  possessed  a  rich  store  of  amusing  stories,  and  a  vein  of 
humour  peculiar  to  himself,  which  never  failed  to  render  his 
company  entertaining  and  much  courted,  especially  by  the 
junior  members  of  the  profession.  His  personal  appear- 
ance was  no  less  striking,  particularly  in  his  latter  years. 
Age  had  rendered  his  features  more  attenuated;  but  the 
vivacity  of  his  countenance,  and  the  expression  of  his  power- 
ful grey  eyes  defied  the  insidious  hand  of  time.  His  dress 
also  partook  of  the  peculiarities  of  his  character;  and,  on 
the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  it  would  have  puzzled  a  stranger 
to  decide  whether  the  lawyer  or  farmer  most  predominated 
in  his  appearance.  His  deep  "rig-and-fur,"  black-and- 
wliite-stri[)cd  woollen  stockings,  and  stout  shoes,  at  once 
denoted  that  he  had  other  avocations  than  those  of  the 
Parliament  House.  Like  most  of  the  old  lawyers,  he  was 
an  enthusiastic  agriculturist,  and  always  spent  his  vacations 
among  his  fields  at  Hermand,  which  he  improved  with 
much  skill,  and  at  considerable  expense.  He  had  a  large 
Newfoundland  dog,  named  Dolphin,  which  used  to  accom- 
125 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

pany  him  in  all  his  excursions  —  even  to  the  church  on 
Sundays.  There  the  sagacious  animal,  seated  beside  his 
master,  with  his  immense  paws  placed  on  the  book -board, 
would  rest  his  head  as  calmly  and  doucely  as  any  sleepy 
farmer  in  the  congregation.  So  much  did  this  church-going 
propensity  grow  upon  the  animal,  that,  in  the  absence  of 
his  master,  he  regularly  went  himself;  and,  what  was  still 
more  extraordinary,  if  there  happened  to  be  no  sermon  in 
the  parish  church,  he  was  liberal  enough  to  attend  the 
Dissenting  meeting-house. 

Lord  Hermand's  warmth  of  temper  was  not  confined 
to  occasional  sallies  on  the  bench.  An  amusing  instance 
occurred  on  one  occasion  at  Hermand.  A  large  party 
were  at  dinner,  and  his  lordship  in  excellent  humour, 
when  one  of  the  waiting-men,  in  handing  over  a  wine- 
decanter,  unfortunately  let  it  fall  to  the  floor,  by  which  it 
was  smashed  to  pieces.  This  unlucky  accident  at  once 
overbalanced  his  lordship's  equanimity.  He  sprung  to 
his  feet  in  a  fury  of  passion,  and,  darting  over  chairs  and 
every  impediment,  rushed  after  the  fellow,  who  fled  precipi- 
tately downstairs.  The  dinner-party  were  thrown  into  con- 
vulsions of  laughter,  and  had  scarcely  regained  their  com- 
posure when  his  lordship  returned  from  the  chase,  and 
resumed  his  chair  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  the 

harmony. 

James  Peterson 


126 


X 

THE   HEALERS 

The  House-Surgeon  <o        <::>        o        <^        '■^ 

EXCEEDING  tall,  but  built  so  well  his  height 
Half-disappears  in  flow  of  chest  and  limb; 
Moustache  and  whisker  trooper-like  in  trim; 
Frank-faced,  frank-eyed,  frank-hearted;   always  bright 
And  always  punctual  —  morning,  noon,  and  night; 
Bland  as  a  Jesuit,  sober  as  a  hymn; 
Humorous,  and  yet  without  a  touch  of  whim ; 
Gentle  and  amiable,  yet  full  of  fight; 
His  piety,  though  fresh  and  true  in  strain, 
Has  not  yet  whitewashed  up  his  common  mood 
To  the  dead  blank  of  his  particular  Schism: 
Sweet,  unaggressive,  tolerant,  most  humane, 
Wild  artists  like  his  kindly  elderhood, 
And  cultivate  his  mild  Philistinism. 

W.  E.  Henley 

Dr.  Anderson     ^>       <:>       -cy       ^i.-       ^^y       ^^i" 

DR.  ANDERSON  practised  in  Selkirk    for  forty-five 
years,  and  never  refused  to  go  to  any  case,  however 
poor,  or  however  deep  in  his  debt,  and  however  far  off. 
One  wife  in  Selkirk  said  to  her  neighbours,  as  he  passed 
up  the  street,  "There  goes  my  honest  doctor,  that  brought 
127 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

a'  my  ten  bairns  into  the  world,  and  ne'er  got  a  rap  for 
ane  o'  them." 

His  methodical  habits,  and  perfect  arrangement  of  his 
time,  enabled  him  to  overtake  his  very  wide  practice, 
and  to  forget  no  one.  He  rose  generally  at  six  every 
morning,  often  sooner,  and  saw  his  severe  cases  in  the 
town  early,  thus  enabling  him  to  start  for  his  long  journeys ; 
and  he  generally  took  a  stage  to  breakfast  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles. 

One  morning  he  left  home  at  six  o'clock,  and  after  being 
three  miles  up  the  Yarrow,  met  a  poor  barefoot  woman, 
who  had  walked  from  St.  Mary's  Loch  to  have  two  teeth 
extracted.  Out  of  his  pocket  with  his  "key"  (she,  of 
course,  shouting  "Murder!  murder!  mercy!"),  down  sat 
the  good  woman;  the  teeth  were  out  at  once,  and  the 
doctor  rode  on  his  journey,  to  breakfast  at  Eldinhope, 
fourteen  miles  up,  calling  on  all  his  patients  in  Yarrow  as 
he  rode  along.  After  breakfast,  by  Dryhope,  and  along  St. 
Mary's  Loch,  to  the  famed  Tibby's^  whose  son  was  badly,  up 
to  the  head  of  the  Loch  of  the  Lows,  and  over  the  high 
hills  into  Ettrick,  and  riding  up  the  Tima  to  Dalgliesh, 
and  back  down  the  Ettrick,  landed  at  "Gideon's  o'  the 
Singlie"  to  dinner;  and  just  when  making  a  tumbler  of 
toddy,  a  boy  was  brought  into  the  kitchen,  with  a  finger 
torn  off  in  a  threshing-mill.  The  doctor  left  after  another 
tumbler,  and  still  making  calls  about  Ettrickbridge,  etc., 
reached  home  about  eight,  after  riding  fifty  miles;  not  to 
rest,  however,  for  various  messages  await  his  return;  all 
are  visited,  get  medicines  from  him,  for  there  were  no 
laboratories  in  his  days,  then  home  to  prepare  all  the  various 
prescriptions  for  those  he  had  seen  during  the  long  day. 

He  had  just  finished  this  when  off  he  was  called  to  a 
midwifery  case,  far  up  Ale  Water. 
128 


The  Healers 

To  show  how  pointed  to  time  he  was,  one  day  he  had 
to  go  to  Buccleugh,  eighteen  miles  up  the  Ettrick,  and 
having  to  ride  down  the  moors  by  Ashkirk,  and  then  to 
go  on  to  St.  Boswell's  to  see  old  Raeburn,  he  wished  a 
change  of  horse  at  Riddell  —  fixed  one  o'clock,  and  one 
of  his  sons  met  him  at  a  point  of  the  road  at  the  very 
hour,  though  he  had  ridden  forty  miles  through  hills 
hardly  passable. 

I  have  seen  him  return  from  the  head  of  Yarrow  half 
frozen,  and  not  an  hour  in  bed  till  he  had  to  rise  and  ride 
back  the  same  road,  and  all  without  a  murmur. 

It  was  all  on  horseback  in  his  day,  as  there  was  only  one 
gig  in  the  county;  and  his  district  extended  west  up  the 
valleys  of  Ettrick  and  Yarrow  about  twenty  miles;  south  in 
Ale  Water  seven  to  ten  miles;  the  same  distance  east;  and 
north  about  fourteen  miles  by  Tweedside,  and  banks  of  the 
Gala  and  Caddon.  His  early  rising  enabled  him  also  to  get 
through  his  other  work,  for  he  made  up  all  his  books  at  that 
time,  had  accounts  ready,  wrote  all  his  business  letters, 
of  which  he  had  not  a  few. 

In  coming  home  late  in  the  night  from  his  long  journeys, 
he  often  slept  on  horseback  for  miles  together.  In  fine, 
he  was  the  hardest-worked  man  in  the  shire ;  always  cheer- 
ful, and  always  ready  to  join  in  any  cheerful  and  harmless 
amusement,  as  well  as  everj'  good  work;  but  he  killed 
himself  by  it,  bringing  on  premature  decay. 

He  was  many  years  Provost  of  the  Burgh,  took  his  full 
share  of  business,  was  the  personal  adviser  of  his  patients, 
and  had  more  curatorships  than  any  one  else  in  the  county. 
What  a  pattern  of  active  beneficence,  bringing  up  three  sons 
to  his  profession,  giving  his  family  a  first-rate  education, 
and  never  getting  anything  for  the  half  of  his  every 
day's    work !      Wc    can    fancy   we    see    the    handsome, 

K  129 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

swarthy,  ruddy  old  man  coming  jogging  (his  normal  pace) 
on  his  well-known  mare  down  the  Yarrow  by  Black  Andro 
(a  wooded  hill),  and  past  Foulshiels  (Mungo  Park's  birth- 
place), after  being  all  night  up  the  glen  with  some  "crying 
wife,"  and  the  cottagers  at  Glower-ower-'im,  blessing  him 
as  he  passed  sound  asleep,  or  possibly  wakening  him  out  of 
his  dreams,  to  come  up  and  "lance"  the  bairn's  eye-tooth. 

Dr.  John  Brown 

Mr.  Syme      ^o-        "O        ^ci*.        ^;:n,        ^v:>        ^^c^ 

T  TIS  life,  till  he  won  his  victory,  when  he  was  half 
■'-  -■-  through  it,  was  an  almost  continual  combat  with 
men  and  things.  Sensitive,  strong-willed,  shy,  having  a 
stammer,  bent  upon  reaching  reality  and  the  best  in  every- 
thing; he  had  to  struggle  with  imperfect  means,  family 
disaster,  and  inadequate  power  of  expressing  his  mind. 
He  was  full  of  genuine  virtue  and  affection  (the  more  the 
deeper  in).  With  singular  keenness  and  exactness  of  the 
outer  and  inner  eye,  he  touched  everything  to  the  quick. 
He  was  ever  ready  for  a  joke,  but  as  a  habit  of  mind  was 
serious  and  in  earnest.  Bent  on  getting  knowledge  at  first 
hand,  he  was  therefore  somewhat  neglectful  of  other  men's 
knowledge,  and  especially  if  at  third  hand.  Full  of  a  child's 
enjoyment  of  Nature  in  her  flowers  and  wilds,  he  had  also 
all  his  days  a  passion  for  cultivating  and  enjoying  fruits 
and  flowers.  He  was  kindly  to  oddities  of  all  sorts ;  loving 
the  best  music,  hating  all  other;  little  capable  of  poetry, 
but  when  capable  it  must  be  the  best;  not  sentimental, 
rather  sensible  and  sensitive,  especially  the  first,  but  not 
without  romance.  He  was  the  discoverer  of  the  solubility 
of  caoutchouc  in  coal-tar,  and  therefore  entitled  to  an  im- 
mense fortune  had  he  patented  it.  He  did  not  read  much 
130 


The   Healers 

hard  or  heavy  reading;  it  was  diversion  he  sought  rather 
than  information.  The  action  of  his  mind  was  so  intense 
during  his  hours  of  work,  that,  Hke  a  race-horse,  doing  his 
day's  work  in  not  many  minutes,  though  putting  his  capital 
of  Hfe  into  that  supreme  act,  he  needed  and  rehshed  perfect 
diastole  —  relaxation;  and,  as  Mr.  Comrie  of  Penicuik 
said  of  himself,  "his  constitution  could  stand  a  great  deal 
of  ease,"  though  ready  at  any  moment  for  any  emergency 
and  for  the  full  play  of  his  utmost. 

I  was  the  first  to  see  him  when  struck  down  by  hemi- 
plegia. It  was  in  Shandwick  Place,  where  he  had  his 
chambers  —  sleeping  and  enjoying  his  evenings  in  his 
beautiful  Millbank,  with  its  flowers,  its  matchless  orchids, 
and  heaths,  and  azaleas,  its  bananas,  and  grapes,  and 
peaches;  with  Blackford  Hill  —  where  Marmion  saw  the 
Scottish  host  mustering  for  P^lodden  —  in  front,  and  the 
Pcntlands,  with  Cairketton  Hill,  their  advanced  guard, 
cutting  the  sky,  its  ruddy,  porphyry  scaur,  holding  the 
slanting  shadows  in  its  bosom.  He  was,  as  before  said,  in 
his  room  at  Shandwick  Place,  sitting  in  his  chair,  having 
been  set  up  by  his  faithful  Elackbcll.  His  face  was  dis- 
torted. He  said  — "John,  this  is  the  conclusion,"  and  so 
in  much  it  was,  to  his,  and  our,  and  the  world's  sad  cost. 
He  submitted  to  his  fate  with  manly  fortitude,  but  he  felt 
it  to  its  uttermost.  Struck  down  in  his  prime,  full  of  rich 
power,  abler  than  ever  to  do  good  to  men ;  his  soul  surviv- 
ing his  brain,  and  looking  on  at  its  steady  ruin  during  many 
sad  months.  He  became  softer,  gentler,  —  more  easily 
moved,  even  to  tears,  —  but  the  judging  power,  the  perspi- 
cacity, the  piercing  to  the  core,  remained  untouched. 
Henceforward,  of  course,  life  was  maimed.  How  he  bore 
up  against  this,  resigning  his  delights  of  teaching,  of  doing 
good  to  men,  of  seeing  and  cherishing  his  students,  of 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

living  in  the  front  of  the  world;  how  he  accepted  all  this, 
those  only  nearest  him  can  know.  I  have  never  seen  any- 
thing more  pathetic  than  when  near  his  death  he  lay  speech- 
less, but  full  of  feeling  and  mind,  and  made  known  in  some 
inscrutable  way  to  his  old  gardener  and  friend,  that  he 
wished  to  see  a  certain  orchid,  which  he  knew  should  then 
be  in  flower.  The  big,  clumsy,  knowing  Paterson,  glum 
and  victorious  (he  was  for  ever  getting  prizes  at  the  Horti- 
cultural), brought  it  —  the  Stanhopea  tigrina  —  in,  with- 
out a  word,  —  it  was  the  very  one.  Radiant  in  beauty, 
white,  with  a  brown  freckle,  Hke  Imogen's  mole,  and  like 
it,  "right  proud  of  that  most  delicate  lodging";  he  gazed 
at  it,  and  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears,  motioned  it  away 
as  insufferable. 

He  had  that  quality  of  primary  minds  of  attaching  per- 
manently those  he  had  relations  to.  His  students  never 
ceased  to  love  him  and  return  to  him  from  all  regions  of  the 
world.  He  was  in  this  a  solar  man,  and  had  his  planets 
pacing  faithfully  round  him.  He  was  somewhat  slow  in 
adapting  new  things,  except  his  own.  He  desired  to  prove 
all  things,  and  then  he  held  fast  that  which  was  good. 
This  was  the  case  with  chloroform  and  the  antiseptic 
doctrine,  which  the  world  owes  —  and  what  a  debt !  — 
to  his  great  son-in-law,  Joseph  Lister;  but  new-fangledness 
per  se  he  disliked.  He  had  beautiful  hands,  small  and 
strong;  and  their  work  on  skeletons  of  serpents  in  the 
College  of  Surgeons  is  still  unmatched. 

He  was  all  his  life  a  Liberal  in  politics.  His  style  was 
the  perfection  of  clearness  and  force,  —  his  master  having 
been  William  Cobbett.  As  a  man,  who  himself  knows 
how  to  use  language,  said  of  him,  "he  never  wastes  a 
drop  of  blood  or  of  ink." 

But  the  deeper  you  cut  into  him  the  richer,  the  sweeter, 
132 


The  Healers 

the  stronger  the  substance.  He  was  irritable  at,  and  im- 
patient of  stupidity,  and  long-windedness,  and  pretence; 
and  at  falsehood,  quacker}',  and  trickery  of  all  sorts,  he 
went  like  a  terrier  at  a  rat. 

Dr.  John  Brown 

The  Chief     <::n,        ^o        '^Ci.-        ^ci.^        ^^iy        -cy 

T  T  IS  brow  spreads  large  and  placid,  and  his  eye 

•''■'■   Is  deep  and  bright,  with  steady  looks  that  still. 

Soft  lines  of  tranquil  thought  his  face  fulfil  — 

His  face  at  once  benign  and  proud  and  shy. 

If  envy  scout,  if  ignorance  deny. 

His  faultless  patience,  his  unyielding  will, 

Beautiful  gentleness,  and  splendid  skill, 

Innumerable  gratitudes  reply. 

His  wise,  rare  smile  is  sweet  with  certainties, 

And  seems  in  all  his  patients  to  compel 

Such  love  and  faith  as  failure  cannot  quell. 

We  hold  him  for  another  Herakles, 

Battling  with  custom,  prejudice,  disease. 

As  once  the  son  of  Zeus  with  Death  and  Hell. 

W.  E.  Henley 


Mr.  Lucas  the  Vet 


■^O  "vi^  -O  -viK  <0 


A  NOTHER  celebrity  among  my  friends  was  Lucas, 
-^  *-  of  Lutterworth,  the  famous  veterinary.  He  was, 
I  believe,  the  son  of  a  parson,  but  took  to  horses  and 
hunting  before  he  was  out  of  his  teens.  He  was  devoted 
to  cock-fighting,  and  would  sit  over  a  cup  of  tea  detailing 
his  experiences.  Once,  he  said,  a  quiet  parson  pestered 
him  to  give  him  a  game  cock  to  run  with  his  birds,  so  he 
rode  one  afternoon  into  the  rectory  yard  with  the  bird  in  a 

^33 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

bag  under  his  arm,  and  asked  for  the  rector,  who  was  all 
excitement  to  see  this  beauty.  The  bird  was  carefully 
released  on  the  pavement,  whereupon,  spying  a  small  pig 
that  had  crept  away  from  his  mother,  it  flew  at  him  in  a 
moment,  and,  driving  a  spur  into  his  eye,  killed  the  suckling 
on  the  spot.  The  gallant  bird  went  back  to  his  old  run. 
These  pugnacious  birds  had  to  be  kept  far  apart  from  each 
other,  and  that  is  the  explanation  of  the  small,  well-built, 
square  brick  huts  with  door  and  lock  that  one  still  some- 
times meets  with  in  the  grazing-grounds  of  Leicestershire 
and  Nottinghamshire.  In  these,  single  warriors  were 
isolated  beyond  the  reach  of  cock-crow  and  challenge  from 
any  rival. 

Lucas  was  in  great  request  in  the  training-stables,  and 
entire  reliance  was  placed  in  his  opinion  and  treatment. 
On  a  summons  he  would  ride  ofif  astonishing  distances 
on  professional  visits.  He  was  a  thoroughly  independent 
as  well  as  dependable  man,  and  those  who  did  not  under- 
stand his  high  character  and  put  themselves,  in  a  way, 
on  guard  against  him  in  his  practice  were  made  to  feel  their 
mistake.  He  told  me  that  when  Brassey  took  a  contract 
for  the  construction  of  a  branch  line  from  Rugby,  he  wrote 
asking  him  to  take  the  veterinary  charge  of  his  horses 
standing  at  that  place,  of  which  there  were  about  forty  in 
the  stable.  He  rode  off  at  once  and  was  soon  on  the  spot. 
He  walked  quickly  from  horse  to  horse,  as  was  his  custom, 
with  no  pretence  of  occult  science,  but  just  going  up  to  each 
animal's  head,  as  if  to  say,  "Good  morning."  Having 
thus  introduced  himself  to  the  whole  string,  he  slipped  into 
the  office,  and  calling  the  horse-keeper  in,  shut  the  door. 
"Now,"  he  said,  "you  will  have  to  brand  each  horse's 
hoof  with  my  numbers,  first  of  all  putting  up  close  boarded 
partitions  (stalls)  between  each  pair.  The  first  pair  must 
134 


The  Healers 

be  numbered  1-2,  the  next  3-4,  and  there  must  be  a  sepa- 
rate pail  for  the  exclusive  use  of  each  pair.  No  time  to  be 
lost  over  this,  and  when  you  let  me  know  that  it  is  done, 
I  will  ride  over  again."  The  next  letter  that  came  was 
not  from  the  horse-keeper,  but  from  his  employer,  the  owner 
of  the  animals,  written  in  an  offended  style,  "to  remind  Mr. 
Lucas  that  he  engaged  him  as  a  veterinary  surgeon,  not  to 
advise  his  man  on  stable  management."  Lucas  wrote 
back  that  he  knew  perfectly  what  he  was  about,  but  as  his 
advice  was  not  of  the  nature  Mr.  Brassey  anticipated, 
he  trusted  he  would  fmd  some  other  more  skilful  person 
"to  doctor  the  horses."  The  state  of  the  case  was  this: 
Having  just  put  his  finger  under  the  left  jaw,  and  found  the 
awful  indication  there  of  glanders,  he  was  not  going  to 
advertise  its  presence  by  an  inquiry  or  statement  at  the 
stables;  he  wanted  to  stop,  as  far  as  he  could,  the  spread  of 
the  calamity,  and,  had  he  continued  in  office,  would  have 
killed  some,  got  others  down  coal-pits,  and  saved  as  far  as 
possible  the  heavy  losses  that  ensued. 

He  had  a  practice  of  not  sending  in  any  account  or 
making  any  charge  for  advice  to  those  whom  he  regarded 
as  acquaintances,  and  with  whom  as  residents  near  Lutter- 
worth he  had  for  some  time  been  associated ;  but  he  was 
quick  to  perceive  if  an  outsider  coming  down  to  hunt 
thought  he  could  take  advantage  of  this  disposition.  A 
friend  of  mine  wrote  to  Lucas  asking  him  to  examine 
his  horse  in  my  stable.  He  came  the  next  day,  found 
nothing  the  matter,  and  at  once  posted  an  account  for  the 
visit  with  a  request  for  its  discharge. 

I  remember  a  case  in  London  where  a  dealer's  warranty 
as  to  the  eyesight  of  a  horse  came  in  question.  Two 
eminent  "vets"  differed  in  their  opinion,  one  holding  that 
the   sight   was  sound,    the  other   that   it   was  imperfect. 

M5 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Neither  would  yield,  and  the  matter  was  referred  to  Lucas 
for  final  settlement.  He  came  to  the  dealer's  yard  in 
London,  walked  round  to  the  horse's  head,  and  ordered 
a  halter  to  be  put  on,  and  an  empty  stable-bucket  to  be 
placed  in  the  middle  of  the  yard.  Taking  the  halter  in 
his  hand,  he  led  the  animal  in  a  direct  line  for  the  bucket. 
The  horse  went  forward,  and  blundered  over  it  with  his 
fore-legs.  "Blind,  without  doubt,"  was  the  verdict,  and 
blind,  though  not  "stone  blind,"  the  creature  was,  as  all 
bystanders  could  see. 

He  disliked  casting  horses,  and  could  perform  some 
of  the  severest  operations  with  the  horse  on  its  legs. 

Some  of  his  friends  who  for  years  had  benefited  by  his 
most  valuable  advice  gratuitously,  desiring  to  present 
him  with  some  testimonial  and  acknowledgment  of  his 
kindness,  raised  a  private  fund  for  that  purpose  among 
themselves,  in  which,  of  course,  I  joined  most  heartily. 
Enough  came  in  to  warrant  us  in  persuading  him  with 
some  difficulty  to  sit  for  his  portrait,  and  there  was,  I  think, 
about  £500  over.  Then  came  a  dinner  at  Lutterworth, 
which  the  subscribers  attended  with  Lucas  as  the  guest. 
Some  excellent  punch  and  a  short  speech,  I  think  (but  I 
was  not  present),  from  a  hunting  parson,  was  followed 
by  unveiling  the  portrait  of  the  good  old  gentleman  with 
his  high  forehead  and  tine-cut  features;  then  the  balance 
of  the  fund  in  gold  was  placed  in  a  bag  on  the  table  by 
his  glass,  and  with  some  more  conviviality  the  meeting 
broke  up;  and  I  was  told  that  Lucas  came  away  with 
others  to  the  door,  leaving  the  bag  where  it  was  on  the 
table.  One  of  the  party  reminded  him  that  he  had  not 
taken  up  the  gold.  "Oh !"  says  he,  "that  will  do  for  the 
waiters." 

Albert  Pell 
136 


XI 

NIMROD'S   HEROES 

Mr.  Lockley  <:>        ^o        ^^^y        ^o       '^^       "^^ 

I 

FOX-HUNTING,  however,  was  his  favourite  pursuit ; 
and  here,  for  two  or  three  seasons,  he  achieved  what 
was  never  attempted,  or  even  thought  of,  by  any  other 
man.  He  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  hunting  with  the 
late  Sir  Edward  Littleton's  fox-hounds  on  Cannock  Chase, 
whose  hour  of  meeting  was  at  daybreak;  and  after  their 
morning  sport  was  over,  he  used  to  go  to  the  late  Lord 
Talbot's  hounds,  whose  country  was  on  the  other  side 
the  Trent,  and  whose  hour  of  meeting  was  eleven.  Three 
convenient  bridges  over  the  Trent  afforded  him  this 
facility;  and  he  frequently  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a 
fine  day's  sport  with  each  of  these  packs.  Modern  men 
may  ask,  How  was  this  done?  The  only  answer  to  which 
is,  that  no  day  was  ever  too  long,  neither  was  any  night  ever 
too  dark,  for  this  determined  sportsman.  Early  hours 
and  temperate  living,  no  doubt  assisted  him;  and  for  the 
former  he  was  always  remarkable.  Four  hours'  sleep, 
he  was  wont  to  say,  were  enough  for  a  thrasher;   and  I 

^37 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

well  remember  a  description  the  late  Mr.  Stubbs  was  used 
to  give  of  a  run  with  Sir  Edward  Littleton's  hounds,  which 
he  always  prefaced  by  saying,  "I  breakfasted  with  Lockley 
at  twelve  o'clock  at  night." 

There  is  no  part  of  Mr.  Lockley's  life  that  creates  more 
surprise,  than  the  immense  distance  he  has,  all  his  life, 
been  in  the  habit  of  riding  to  meet  hounds.  This  he  has, 
in  great  measure,  been  enabled  to  do  from  the  very  easy 
seat  he  has  on  his  horse,  and  from  his  very  temperate 
habits  in  the  evening,  and  his  very  early  rising  in  the 
morning.  His  exploits  on  the  road,  also,  are,  I  should 
imagine,  hardly  to  be  exceeded  by  any  one.  Three  times 
in  one  year  he  rode  the  same  horse  from  Newmarket  to 
his  own  house  in  one  day,  being  104  miles ;  and  on  another 
occasion,  he  rode  a  galloway  from  his  own  door  to  North- 
ampton, and  back  again  in  the  evening  —  making  a  dis- 
tance of  120  miles.  Three  years  ago  he  was  seen  by  a 
friend  of  mine  on  the  course  at  Newmarket  one  evening. 
About  noon  the  next  day  but  one,  he  was  met  by  another 
friend  of  mine  within  six  miles  of  his  own  house;  and  after 
refreshing  himself  he  got  upon  another  horse  and  was  in 
Shrewsbury  fair  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  —  sixty 
miles  from  his  own  door.  What  makes  this  most  ex- 
traordinary is,  that  my  friend  who  saw  him  at  Newmarket 
declared  to  me  that  he  could  not  have  ridden  his  horse 
10  miles  to  have  possessed  him  at  the  end  of  it.  He  was, 
however,  peculiarly  marked,  and  therefore  could  not  be 
mistaken;  and  we  may  presume  that  he  came  under  the 
denomination  of  "a  rum  one  to  look  at,  but  a  devil  to  go." 

The  year  before  last,  this  extraordinary  horseman 
performed  what  might  almost  be  termed  a  miracle  at  his 
time  of  life  —  then  73.  He  left  his  own  house  at  twelve 
o'clock  one  day;  was  at  the  fight  between  Spring  and  Neate 

138 


Nimrod's   Heroes 

by  one  o'clock  on  the  next;  rode  home  with  me  to  my 
house  after  the  fight ;  and  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say  to  the 
contrary,  was  in  London  by  four  o'clock  on  the  third  day 
—  making  162  miles  in  52  hours,  on  the  same  horse! 

Mr.  Lockley's  person  —  as  will  be  seen  by  the  print  — 
is  in  perfect  sj-mmetry;  but  we  must  all  yield  to  the  in- 
fluence of  time,  and  he  would  have  been  a  still  better 
subject  for  the  pencil  twenty  years  back.  "What  a  pity 
it  is,"  says  an  elegant,  but  very  forcible  writer,  "that  God 
should  break  His  own  best  workmanship  into  pieces,  and 
demolish,  by  thousands,  the  finest  structures  of  His  own 
buildings!"  But  thus  it  is:  Nature  has  fLxed  the  limits 
of  youth,  beauty,  and  vigour  to  us  all;  and  though  we 
may  struggle  against  her,  she  will  make  a  ruin  of  us  at 
last.  As  ^Slilton,  in  a  fine  strain  of  melancholy,  observes, 
we  fall  into  "the  sere  and  yellow  leaf";  and  when  our 
hour  comes,  we  drop.  Mr.  Lockley,  however,  may  be 
said  to  give  the  lie  to  time;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
accidents  —  amounting  to  the  almost  incredible  number 
of  seven,  in  two  years,  from  horses,  carriages,  etc.  —  which 
he  has  met  with,  he  would  still  be  riding  any  distance  to 
meet  hounds;  whereas  he  has  unfortunately  been  con- 
fined to  his  couch  for  the  last  three  months.  His  passion 
for  fox-hunting  still  holds  the  same  power  over  his  mind; 
and,  in  the  fatigue  he  was  last  season  able  to  undergo,  he 
is  a  striking  instance  of  the  good  effect  of  a  life  spent  in 
temperance,  early  hours,  and  field  sport,  contrasted  with 
the  softness  of  modern  manners  —  perverting  the  order  of 
Nature,  by  passing  the  finest  part  of  the  day  in  a  bed. 
In  short,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  as  has  been  said  of  another, 
his  age  is  like  the  lusty  winter  —  frosty,  but  kindly. 

Though  few  can  relish  gross  flattery,  yet  no  man  is 
insensible  to  delicate  praise.     There  are  many  traits  in 

139 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Mr.  Lockley's  character  well  worthy  of  imitation;  and 
his  sins,  as  Lord  Byron  says,  have  been  of  "the  softer 
order."  In  nothing,  however,  has  he  been  more  con- 
spicuous than  in  a  uniform  command  of  temper,  and  a 
studious  desire  of  avoiding  giving  offence.  His  hospitality, 
according  to  his  means,  has  been  proverbial;  and  he  has 
been  an  excellent  master  to  his  servants;  and  though  it 
cannot  be  said  of  him,  that  his  early  days  were  spent  in 
the  "soft  securities  of  retirement,  or  under  the  shelter  of 
academic  bowers,"  yet  he  has  the  command  of  language 
which  would  not  reflect  discredit  upon  either.  As  a  com- 
panion he  is  highly  entertaining;  for  by  the  help  of  an 
excellent  memory  he  "draws  all  ages  into  one,"  as  Seneca 
so  happily  terms  it,  and  thus  makes  old  age  delightful. 

There  is  another  part  of  Mr.  Lockley's  character  which 
I  cannot  do  less  than  admire,  and  that  is,  what  in  sport- 
ing language  may  be  called  "the  steady  pace"  at  which 
he  has  travelled,  so  far,  through  life.  He  has  always 
had  a  good  house  over  his  head.  He  has  always  had 
some  good  hunters  in  his  stable.  He  has  always  had  some 
race-horses  at  his  trainer's.  He  has  always  had  some 
brood-mares  in  his  paddocks;  and  he  has  always  had  a 
young  one  or  two  coming  up.  He  has  always  had  some 
good  pointers  in  his  kennel.  He  has  always  had  a  pretty 
girl  to  wait  at  table.  He  has  always  had  a  good  bottle 
of  wine  for  his  friends.  He  has  always  had  some  good 
stories  to  tell  them ;  and  he  has  always  given  them  a  hearty 
welcome.     Reader !  what  more  need  be  said  ? 


140 


Nimrod's  Heroes 
II 

WE  like  to  hear  of  coolness  displayed  in  the  last  hour; 
and  Socrates  ordering  a  cock  to  ^sculapius,  whilst 
the  lamp  might  be  said  to  have  been  glimmering  in  the 
socket,  is  one  of  the  noblest  instances  handed  down  to  us 
from  antiquity.  The  last  moments,  however,  of  two 
celebrated  sportsmen  of  our  own  times  are  by  no  means 
unworthy  of  record.  I  allude  to  John  Lockley  and  John 
Burrell.  John  Lockley  died  like  a  gentleman.  "Like 
a  gentleman!"  did  I  say?  I  should  have  said,  like  a 
Christian,  among  his  friends,  as  it  was  his  wish  to  die,  in 
peace  with  all  the  world,  and  after  a  good  run  with  hounds. 
This  sort  of  exit  is,  in  my  opinion,  worth  all  the  tears  and 
lamentations  of  those  psalm-singing  saints,  who,  when  they 
quit  this  world,  too  often  leave  destitute  and  forlorn  some 
son  or  daughter  who  may  have  incurred  their  displeasure 
by  an  imprudent  marriage,  or  some  trifling  indiscretion 
to  which  our  nature  is  so  prone. 

I  confess  I  should  have  been  sorry  to  have  heard  of 
my  old  brother  sportsman  having  been  surrounded  by 
priests  in  his  last  moments  —  bedaubed  with  extreme 
unction,  and  perhaps  alarmed  into  the  belief  that  fox- 
hunting is  a  crime.     Peace  to  his  ashes! 

Nimrod 


Mr.  John  Hawkes   <;:><::>         <iy        <^        ^o 

ANOTHER  celebrated  character  in  our  sporting  cata- 
logue is  Mr.  John  Hawkes,  who  resided  many  years 
at  Snitterfield  in  Warwickshire,  but  who  has  lately  been 
living  in  Worcestershire,  and  only  occasionally  appearing 
in  the  former  country.     Mr.  Hawkes  is  also  a  very  old 
141 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Meltonian,  having  been  a  great  deal  in  Leicestershire  in 
the  late  Mr.  Meynell's  time,  and  distinguished  by  the 
friendship  and  confidence  of  that  renowned  sportsman. 
Mr.  Hawkes  has  not  only  been  a  brilliant  rider  over  a 
country,  but  was,  at  one  time,  supposed  to  be  one  of  the 
best  gentleman-jockeys  of  his  day.  "He  was  not  only," 
to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Buckle,  "clever  in  the  saddle, 
but  right  in  the  attics,"  his  judgment  in  a  race  being 
particularly  good ;  and  had  he  been  a  jockey  by  profession, 
and  three  stone  lighter  than  he  is,  he  would  have  ridden 
many  a  winner  of  the  Derby.  Mr.  Hawkes  was  born  to 
ride,  nature  having  cast  him  in  one  of  her  favourite  moulds; 
I  have  heard  that  when  in  the  army,  in  early  life,  he  was 
considered  a  model  for  a  light  dragoon. 

Mr.  Hawkes  having  devoted  himself  to  the  interests  of  his 
family,  has  long  withdrawn  himself  from  the  sporting  world, 
and,  indeed,  from  society  in  general,  by  which,  it  must 
be  admitted,  it  has  sustained  a  loss;  for  he  is  a  man  of 
much  information,  of  very  captivating  manners,  and  in 
every  respect  a  very  worthy  character.  He  has  been  said 
to  view  mankind  through  rather  a  contracted  focus,  if  not 
with  a  jaundiced  eye,  and  an  expression  which  once  dropped 
from  him  in  my  presence  rather  confirms  the  charge.  A 
person  asked  him  how  he  liked  some  particular  horse  — 
"I   like,"   said    he,    "very   few  horses,  very  few  women, 

and    d d    few    men  ! " 

Nimrod 

Mr.  Stubbs   -o        ^o        ^^        <::>        ^^        ^^ 

IT    has  been  very  justly  remarked,  that  whatever  we 
enter  into,  whether   it   be  pleasure   or   business,   we 
should  do  so  with  spirit ;  and  thus  it  was  with  Mr.  Stubbs: 
142 


Nimrod's   Heroes 

for  if  ever  a  man  could  be  said  to  be  enthusiastically 
devoted  to  fox-hunting,  it  was  he.  Indeed  it  was  facetiously 
hinted,  in  the  Epwell  poem,  that  hunting  six  days  in  the 
week  was  not  sufficient  for  this  insatiable  Nimrod,  but  that 
once  in  his  life  he  cried  "who-whoop"  on  a  Sunday  — 

With  his  hat  in  the  air,  peeping  out  for  a  gate, 
Neither  looking,  nor  riding,  by  any  means  straight; 
Mr.  Stubbs  —  a  crack  rider,  no  doubt,  in  his  time  — 
Who  hunting  on  Sundays  did  ne'er  deem  a  crime. 

Agreeably  to  the  Italian  proverb,  "Se  non  e  vero  e  ben' 
trovato"  —  "If  it  is  not  true,  it  is  a  very  good  story;"  and 
you  shall  have  it  as  related  to  me. 

Mr.  Stubbs,  when  resident  in  Shropshire,  which  was 
very  near  to  the  church,  had  a  fox  in  his  keeping,  which 
he  intended  turning  out  before  his  hounds  on  a  Monday 
morning.  On  the  Sunday  preceding,  having  lain  in  his 
bed,  resting  from  the  fatigues  of  the  week,  till  the  good 
people  had  assembled  at  their  prayers,  his  servant  came 
to  inform  him  that  his  fox  had  escaped.  "Has  he,  by 
Jove!"  said  Mr.  Stubbs.  "Saddle  the  bay  horse  in  an 
instant,  and  I  will  be  after  him."  So  jumping  out  of  bed, 
and  forgetting  the  day  of  the  week,  he  soon  unkennelled 
the  pack,  and  laid  them  on  the  scent  of  the  fox.  Puggy 
having  lingered  about  the  buildings  which  were  close  to 
the  church,  the  hounds  remained  giving  their  tongues  for 
some  minutes,  in  seeming  opposition  to  the  parson  in  his 
pulpit;  and  it  is  said  that  each  cried  "Amen,"  at  the  end 
of  a  twenty  minutes'  burst  —  Mr.  Stubbs  having  killed  his 
fox,  as  the  parson  concluded  his  sermon.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Stubbs  having  been  a  great  frequenter  of  race- 
courses, his  time,  with  the  help  of  such  other  diversions 
as  that  season  affords  —  almost  all  of  which  he  partook 

'43 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

of  —  was  tolerably  well  occupied  in  the  summer;  but  in 
a  long  frost  in  the  winter,  he  may  be  said  to  have  laboured 
heavily  under  that  tcedium  vitcs  which  has  been  supposed 
so  particularly  to  attach  itself  to  us  "unlearned  gentlemen 
on  a  rainy  day."  During  this  time,  he  exhibited  a  most 
voracious  appetite  for  novels,  many  volumes  of  which 
he  would  devour  in  a  day,  and  would  occasionally  be  seen 
returning  them,  by  basketsful,  to  the  two  circulating 
libraries  in  the  town.  He  was  often  heard  to  lament 
that  there  was  not  an  Act  of  Parliament  to  enable  all 
Sundays  in  the  winter  to  fall  together  in  a  frost,  which, 
he  said,  would  strengthen  the  spirit  of  devotion  by  their 
repetition,  without  interfering  with  fox-hunting  when  the 
weather  was  open.  After  a  good  day's  sport,  he  always 
took  some  tea,  and  went  to  bed  as  soon  as  he  got  home, 
and  towards  nine  or  ten  o'clock  he  would  get  up  and  enjoy 
the  society  of  his  family.  His  method  of  travelling  was 
equally  singular.  He  would  go  almost  incredible  distances 
in  a  day,  in  his  gig,  with  relays  of  horses  on  the  road  — 
setting  off  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  his  refresh- 
ment nothing  but  tea  and  cold  meat  on  the  journey. 

At  the  festive  board  Mr.  Stubbs  was  little  more  than 
a  spectator,  being  remarkable  for  the  temperance  of  his 
habits;  but  his  conversation  was  highly  amusing.  He 
abounded  in  anecdote,  was  a  great  observer  of  mankind, 
and  his  remarks  upon  the  follies  and  indiscretions  of 
those  twenty  years  younger  than  himself  were  irresistibly 
diverting.  He  was  a  very  honourable  man;  and,  what 
in  my  opinion  entitled  him  to  no  small  respect,  he  was  a 
warm  friend  to  fox-hunting,  and  an  enemy  to  no  man! 

Nimrod 


144 


Nimrod's  Heroes 

Mr.  Leech    -Qy        •<;:>        ^;iy        "O        -<siK        <;>y 

MR.  LEECH  was  one  of  those  characters  of  which 
the  breed  is  nearly  lost,  and  which,  when  gone, 
will  never  be  again  seen  in  this  country  —  the  plain,  un- 
adulterated English  country  gentleman,  who,  possessing 
full  ten  thousand  a  year,  never  left  his  seat,  except  he  was 
called  to  his  county  town  or  went  to  visit  his  friends.  Being 
a  single  man,  he  did  not  even  keep  a  carriage  of  any  sort 
till  far  advanced  in  years;  but  the  whole  pleasure  of  his 
life  was  centred  in  the  enjo}Tnent  of  field  sports  in  the 
morning,  and  the  society  of  his  friends  at  night.  In  the 
present  times,  however,  he  would  be  considered  dead 
slow.  He  dined  at  three  o'clock  if  by  himself,  or  if  he 
had  only  a  few  intimate  friends  in  his  house;  and,  strange 
to  say,  though  he  kept  fox-hounds,  and  hunted  them  him- 
self for  a  long  series  of  years  —  possessing  also  abilities 
quite  above  the  common  standard  —  he  knew  very  little 
about  fox-hunting. 

Cicero  says  of  .Antony,  that  "he  had  a  witty  mirth 
which  could  be  acquired  by  no  art";  and  the  compli- 
ment might  have  been  as  justly  paid  to  Mr.  Leech.  His 
company  was  sought  after  more  than  that  of  any  other  man 
in  his  neighbourhood;  and  so  original  was  his  wit,  and  so 
happily  was  it  applied,  that  he  might  have  been  termed 
the  very  life  and  soul  of  every  party  he  was  in.  Although 
naturally  abstemious,  yet  in  a  party  he  never  failed  to 
sacrifice  most  freely  to  the  god  of  wine,  and  his  wit  and 
good-humour  seemed  to  increase  with  every  glass  he 
drank.  The  signal  of  enough  —  and  he  generally  went 
the  length  of  his  tether  —  was  an  attempt  to  sing  the  first 
verse  of  a  song,  beginning  with 

Women  and  wine  the  heart  delight. 
L  145 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

I  wish  I  could  recollect  a  twentieth  part  of  the  smart 
repartees  and  witty  sayings  of  Mr.  Leech;  but  in  the 
interval  of  time  they  are  lost.  One  of  his  bottle-com- 
panions of  the  sacerdotal  order  asked  him  to  go  to  church 
and  hear  him  preach.  He  afterwards  wished  to  know 
what  he  thought  of  his  sermon.  "Why,"  replied  Mr. 
Leech,  "/  like  yon  better  in  bottle  than  in  wood."  He  was 
very  intimate  with  Sir  Richard  Puleston;  and  as  Sir 
Richard  sometimes  borrowed  his  hounds,  when  he  was 
himself  without  any  in  his  kennel,  and  always  sent  them 
home  in  better  tune  than  he  received  them,  he  generally 
called  him  "my  huntsman  Dick."  Riding  over  to  Emral 
one  day,  soon  after  Sir  Richard  had  been  having  a  fall  of 
timber,  which  opened  to  the  view  his  parish  church,  Mr. 
Leech  remarked,  that  he  could  not  think  what  had  made 
his  hunstman  so  well  behaved  lately,  but,  said  he,  "I've 
found  it  out;  he  does  now  sometimes  get  a  sight  of  the 
church."  Though  never  profane,  Mr.  Leech  would  have 
his  joke.  He  was  once  asked  if  he  ever  went  to  church. 
"Oh  yes,"  answered  he,  ^'biit  I  am  no  church  glutton." 

Inheriting  a  sound  constitution,  rising  early  in  the 
morning,  pursuing  the  sports  of  the  field,  and  generally 
of  temperate  habits,  Mr.  Leech  lived  to  (I  think)  the  age 
of  eighty -six ;  and  as  a  proof  that  the  charms  of  conversa- 
tion and  the  pleasures  of  a  social  glass  lived  as  long  as  he 
did,  it  is  only  necessary  to  observe,  that,  the  year  before 
he  died,  he  sat  down  to  dinner  with  a  friend  of  his  at 
Chester  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  at  two  o'clock 
the  next  morning  he  got  into  his  carriage  to  go  home. 

Mr.  Leech  is  gone;    and  with  him  is  gone  his  sort  oj 

English  gentleman.     He  spent  his  money  in  the  country 

from  which  he  received  it;    he  kept  a  most  hospitable 

house;  was  a  sincere  friend  and  a  most  entertaining  com- 

146 


Nimrod's  Heroes 

panion;  and  for  these  reasons,  he  never  spoke  ill  of  any 
man;  he  was  ever  in  good  humour;  and  in  all  his  jokes 
he  never  forgot  the  wholesome  lesson  of  the  Satirist  — 

Who,  for  the  poor  renown  of  being  smart 
Would  leave  a  sting  within  a  brother's  heart? 

Nimrod 


Captain  Bridges       '^^        "^^        '">5r        -<>».        '^cy 

"PJ'VERY  one  south  of  London,  that  moves  in  the  sport- 
-'— '  ing  world,  has  heard  of  Captain  Bridges,  who  has  long 
been  conspicuous  for  daring  feats  of  horsemanship  and 
coachmanship.  The  Captain  is  a  gentleman  born  and 
bred,  being  a  son  of  the  late  General  Bridges,  and  resides 
at  the  Hermitage,  situated  in  a  beautiful  part  of  the  county 
of  Hants.  The  following  anecdote  of  Captain  Bridges 
should  not  be  lost  to  posterity  —  being  so  truly  character- 
istic of  an  Englishman.  Being  out  one  day  with  the  fox- 
hounds, he  saw  two  gentlemen  parleying  with  a  farmer  in 
a  gateway,  who  refused  to  let  them  pass  through  it.  The 
Captain  rode  up  to  them,  and  asked  them  what  was  the 
matter?  "Why,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  "this  farmer 
says  he  will  murder  the  first  man  who  attempts  to  go  into 
his  field."  "Does  he?"  said  the  Captain:  "then  here 
goes,  life  for  life;"  and  immediately  charged  him.  The 
fellow  aimed  a  desperate  blow  at  his  head  with  a  very 
heavy  stick,  which,  in  spite  of  the  velvet  cap,  would  have 
felled  him  to  the  ground,  if  he  had  not  had  the  good  fortune 
to  have  avoided  it;  when,  taking  to  his  heels,  the  coward 
fled,  with  the  Captain  after  him,  and  absolutely  crept  into 
a  large  covered  drain,  to  avoid  him.  "Whoo-hoop !" 
said  the  Captain;    "I've  run  him  to  groimd,  by  G — dl" 

H7 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

I  have  already  said  that  Captain  Bridges  is  one  of  the 
best  tandem -drivers  in  England.  In  the  exercise  of  his 
art,  he  offers  the  following  bet :  —  namely,  that  he  will 
throw  any  man  out  of  the  carriage  without  himself  being 
thrown  out.  Strange  to  say  this  bet  has  never  been  ac- 
cepted, for  the  life  as  well  as  the  money  of  the  loser  might 
be  the  forfeit. 

Captain  Bridges  is  so  well  known  in  Hampshire  by  the 
name  of  "The  Captain,"  that  I  hope  he  will  pardon  my 
applying  to  him  the  familiar,  though  honourable  title. 

Among  his  other  accomplishments,  he  has  the  credit  of 
riding  a  race  so  well,  that  when  I  once  went  to  ride  against 
him,  I  found  he  was  more  the  favourite  than  his  horse. 
"The  Captain  wins  for  a  pound,"  said  a  farmer  in  my 
hearing,  as  I  first  entered  the  course.  Knowing  there 
was  a  large  field  against  him,  I  naturally  asked  the  farmer, 
if  he  knew  anything  of  the  horse  the  Captain  was  going 
to  ride?  "Not  I,"  said  the  farmer;  "but  the  Captain 
wins,  and  no  one  else  for  a  pound." 

Captain  Bridges  hunts  regularly  with  fox -hounds,  and 
keeps  a  pack  of  harriers  of  his  own.  Were  it  necessary 
to  show  his  devotion  to  the  sport,  this  fact  would  be  suffi- 
cient :  —  The  last  time  I  saw  him  out,  he  told  me  he  was 
severely  attacked  by  gout  at  three  o'clock  that  morning; 
but,  determined  to  hunt,  he  had  taken  two  strong  calomel 
pills,  sixty  drops  of  the  gout  medicine  called  Colchicum, 
on  the  top  of  which  he  puts  a  glass  of  hot  gin  and  water, 
on  his  road  to  covert  —  as  Mr.  Ramsbottom  says,  "to 
keep  things  in  their  places." 

To  describe  the  Captain's  dress  would  take  a  livelier 
pen  than  mine.  His  hat  I  have  seen;  and  by  the  side 
of  it,  the  Jolliffe,  or  any  other  I  have  met  with,  would 
hide  their  diminished  heads.     The  waistcoat  I  have  not 


Nimrod's  Heroes 

seen ;  but  I  have  been  given  to  understand,  that  a  person 
would  be  almost  as  much  at  a  loss  to  say  of  what  materials 
it  was  composed,  as  Mr.  Warde  was  to  inform  a  certain 
great  personage  who  asked  him,  what  hair  his  hat  was 
made  of?  and  perhaps  would  not  be  quite  so  happy  in  his 
conjecture. 

Although,  as  I  have  before  mentioned.  Captain  Bridges 
resides  at  the  Hermitage,  he  does  not  live  the  life  of  a  hermit 
—  being  what  the  world  calls,  "a  jolly  good  fellow"; 
and  I  have  reason  to  believe,  that  in  these  shady  groves, 
the  nightingale '  oftener  hears  the  Captain,  than  the 
Captain  hears  the  nightingale.  Captain  Bridges,  however, 
is  all  fun  and  good  humour,  and  strongly  reminds  one  of 
the  lines  of  the  poet  — 

And  sure,  there  seem  of  human  kind, 
Some  born  to  shun  the  common  strife; 
Some  for  amusive  tasks  designed, 
To  sooth  the  various  ills  of  life. 

Nimrod 


Mr.  Corbet 


■^^  "C:^  '"viy  -"v^  -"CiK  -^li.^ 


CUCCEEDING  to  a  fine  estate,  Mr.  Corbet  went 
*^  abroad  after  having  concluded  his  education,  and 
returned  to  his  native  country  a  finished  gentleman  of 
the  Old  School.  To  the  last  year  of  his  life,  he  was  re- 
markable for  the  neatness  of  his  person  and  extremely 
gentlemanlike  appearance.  His  manners  were  peculiarly 
adapted  to  a  man  at  the  head  of  a  pack  of  fox-hounds, 
being  civil  and  obliging  to  the  whole  field,  and  particularly 

'In  his  convivial  hours,  Captain  BridRcs  occasionally  imitates 
the  mail-coach  horn  so  well  ;is  to  be  heard  at  a  considerable 
distance. 

149 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

so  to  the  farmers,  by  whom  he  was  so  much  respected 
that  the  destruction  of  a  fox  by  foul  play  was  never  heard 
of  in  Warwickshire  in  his  time.  .  .  . 

Although  no  man  performed  the  duties  of  life  more 
correctly  than  Mr.  Corbet,  yet  he  was  wrapped  up  in  his 
hounds.  His  mind  was  with  them,  although  corporeally 
absent,  as  the  following  anecdote  will  prove.  He  had 
lost  his  hounds  one  day,  as  also  had  a  friend  of  mine 
who  was  out  with  them;  and  as  he  was  riding  in  search 
of  them,  he  was  passed  by  Mr.  Corbet  at  a  pretty  slapping 
pace,  when  he  exclaimed,  "  Pray,  don't  ride  over  the  hounds, 
you  will  only  spoil  your  own  sport."  The  hounds  were 
not  within  five  miles  of  him  at  the  time !  It  was  wonder- 
ful, nevertheless,  how  he  would  make  his  appearance  at 
the  end  of  a  run,  without  perhaps  ever  seeing  a  hound, 
as  he  would  not  ride  over  the  fences. 

In  society  Mr.  Corbet  was  a  most  cheerful  and  enter- 
taining companion,  and  often  said  a  good  thing.  I  was 
once  present,  when  an  anecdote  was  told  of  a  gentleman 
having  purchased  a  pack  of  fox -hounds;  but  on  their 
arrival  at  his  kennel  his  wife  went  into  fits,  in  which  she 
continued  till  the  hounds  were  sent  back  again  to  their 
original  owner.  "If  my  wife  had  done  so,"  said  Mr. 
Corbet,  "I  would  never  have  kissed  her  again  till  she 
took  off  her  night -cap  and  cried  Tally-ho!"  .  .  . 

The  late  Earl  of  Aylesford  was  no  sportsman;  but  as 
a  well-wisher  to  fox-hunting,  and  out  of  compliment  to 
Mr.  Corbet,  he  would  sometimes  make  his  appearance  in 
the  field  when  the  hounds  were  drawing  his  coverts  at 
Packington.  On  one  of  these  occasions  his  Lordship 
had  posted  himself  just  behind  Mr.  Corbet  in  a  very  dirty 
ride  in  a  covert.  A  hound  spoke.  "Hark!"  said  Lord 
Aylesford.  "A  puppy,  my  Lord,"  said  Mr.  C.  Another 
150 


Nimrod's  Heroes 

hound  spoke.  "Hark!  again,"  said  the  Earl.  "Puppy," 
said  Mr.  C,  softly.  At  last  old  Trojan  challenged  on 
him:  "Trojan,  G — d!"  said  Mr.  Corbet;  "a  fox  for 
a  hundred !"  when  clapping  spurs  to  his  horse,  with  one  of 
his  cheering  halloos,  he  suddenly  disappeared  in  the  covert, 
leaving  the  noble  Earl  not  only  enveloped  in  astonishment, 
but  covered  with  such  an  "explosion  of  mud,"  that  his 
situation  could  only  be  compared  to  that  of  Dr.  Slop  when 
"beluted  and  transubstantiated"  by  Obadiah  on  the  coach- 
horse. 

An  excellent  print  of  Mr.  Corbet,  by  Mr.  Weaver  of 
Shrewsbury,  was  published  some  years  since  by  sub- 
scription, and  is  to  be  found  in  almost  every  sportsman's 
house  in  Warwickshire,  Shropshire,  and  the  adjoining 
counties.  He  is  mounted  on  a  favourite  grey  horse, 
which  he  purchased  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Biggs,  and  is  repre- 
sented in  the  act  of  capping  his  hounds  to  a  scent  in  a  covert, 
having  just  unkennelled  their  fox.  He  is  accompanied 
by  Will  Barrow,  also  on  one  of  his  favourite  horses,  and 
some  hounds  of  the  old  Trojan  sort;  and  the  likenesses  of 
all  —  particularly  of  Mr.  C.  —  are  well  preserved.  It  is 
much  to  be  lamented,  that  no  able  artist  had  taken  a  sketch 
of  him  in  one  of  his  very  happiest  moments  —  in  the  midst 
of  his  hounds,  when  worrying  their  fox  after  a  good  run. 
He  was  then  seen  to  most  advantage  — 

High  waving  the  brush,  with  pleasure  half  mad; 

Roaring  out,  "Hoicks,  have  at  'em,  we've  killed  him,  my  lad  1" 

In  a  state  of  delight  far  exceeding  all  bounds  — 

See  the  Veteran  Squire  in  the  midst  of  his  hounds. 

A  picture,  however,  whatever  may  be  its  merits,  must 
be  a  bad  substitute  for  such  an  original.  Such  a  man 
never  should  have  died  !     As  an  exam[)le  to  sportsmen  — 

151 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

as  an  example  to  gentlemen  —  as  an  example  to  all  men 
—  Nature  for  once  should  have  gone  out  of  her  way : 
John  Corbet  should  have  been  immortal!  Death  should 
have  had  no  dominion  over  him  —  a  whoo-whoop  should 
never  have  been  heard  over  his  grave ! ! 

Nimrod  (C  /.  Apperley) 


152 


XII 

THE   CHAMPIONS 

The  Old  Swordsmen  <o        "Ciy        '"C>        ''Cv        'Cy 

pIG  was  the  Atlas  of  the  Sword,  and  may  he  remain 
the  gladiating  Statue!  In  him,  Strength,  Resolution, 
and  unparallel'd  Judgement  conspired  to  form  a  matchless 
Master.  There  was  a  Majesty  shone  in  his  Countenance, 
and  blazed  in  all  his  Actions,  beyond  all  I  ever  saw.  His 
right  Leg  bold  and  firm,  and  his  left  which  could  hardly 
ever  be  disturbed,  gave  him  the  surprising  Advantage 
already  proved,  and  struck  his  Adversary  with  Despair 
and  Panic.  He  had  that  peculiar  way  of  stepping  in,  I 
spoke  of  in  a  Parry;  he  knew  his  Arm  and  its  just  lime  of 
moving,  put  a  firm  faith  in  that  and  never  let  his  Adversary 
escape  his  Parry.  He  was  just  as  much  a  greater  Master, 
than  any  other  I  ever  saw,  as  he  was  a  greater  Judge  of 
Time  and  Measure. 

Mr.  Sherlock  must  be  pronounced  an  elegant  Swords- 
Man,  with  uncommon  Merit.  His  Designs  are  true  and 
just,  encouraged  by  an  active  Wrist,  and  great  Agility 
of  Body.  He  pitches  to  the  Small-Sword  Posture,  the 
recommendation  which  I  here  repeat.  I  know  there  are 
great  Demurs  against  it,  but  I  will  venture  to  justify  him 
in  it.     He  is  certainly  right  to  use  that  Guard,  most  proi)erly 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

called  a  Guard,  which  best  stops  the  too  near  approach 
of  his  Adversary,  and  at  the  same  time  supplies  him  with 
more  readiness  to  Action.  But  though  I  am  willing  to 
give  every  Man  his  due  Merit,  I  cannot  step  into  the  Filth 
of  Flattery;  therefore  must  confess  Mr.  Sherlock  is  not 
faultless.  I  will  point  out  one  Defect,  and  leave  it  to 
Judges  whether  I  am  right  in  my  Observation.  It  is  his 
Subjection  and  Proneness  to  starting,  by  which  he  evi- 
dently may  put  himself  in  the  Power  of  a  Man  of  far  less 
Abilities  than  himself,  when,  upon  a  bare  Stamp  with  the 
other's  Foot  and  Movement  of  his  Sword,  he  has  hurried 
back  with  Precipitation.  Sure  Mr.  Sherlock  must  own 
he  hereby  gives  his  Opposer  great  Advantage;  however, 
I  leave  him  with  this  Acknowledgement,  that  if  he  had  Mr. 
Johnson's  firm  stable  Resolution,  he  would  rival  any  I 
have  mentioned. 

John  Delforce.  I  conclude  with  John  Delforce,  and 
though  he  never  fought  with  the  Sword,  I  think  it  would 
be  unpardonable  not  to  give  him  a  Place  among  the  best 
of  them ;  for  sure  none  more  fit,  more  able  to  bring  up  the 
Train.  He  is  a  very  proper  Case  or  Cover  to  the  whole 
Picture,  and  may  stand  the  guarding  Centinel  of  the  Art. 
I  venture  to  proclaim  him  the  only  rival  to  Fig's  memory. 
He  is  so  well  known  for  a  Cudgeller  on  the  Stage,  that 
I  need  not  lose  any  Time  in  reviving  him  to  Thought. 
He  is  an  incontested  Pattern  among  Spectators,  and  has 
made  every  Body  sorely  sensible  of  his  Abilities  with  the 
Stick,  who  dared  dispute  it  with  him.  My  Head,  my  Arm, 
my  Leg  are  strong  Witnesses  of  his  convincing  Arm.  As 
I  said  before,  I  have  tried  with  them  all,  and  must  confess 
my  Flesh,  my  Bones,  remember  him  the  best.  He  strongly 
evinces  with  the  Stick,  what  he  would  execute  with  the 
Sword.     John  Delforce  has  every  Ingredient  to  compound 


The  Champions 

a  perfect  Swords-man,  proper  Strength,  unerring  Judge- 
ment, and  sufficient  Experience.  He  lias  a  Spring  in  thie 
Wrist  more  ready  and  powerful  than  any  I  have  seen,  and 
Fig  seems  to  have  bequeath'd  to  him  his  insight  into  Time 
and  Measure. 

Captain  John  Godfrey 

Broughton  and  Whitaker     -oy         ^c:^        -o        -o 

ADVANCE,  brave  Broughton !  Thee  I  pronounce 
Captain  of  the  Boxers.  As  far  as  I  can  look  back, 
I  think  I  ought  to  open  the  Characters  with  him :  I  know 
none  so  fit,  so  able  to  lead  up  the  Van.  This  is  giving  him 
the  living  Preference  to  the  rest;  but,  I  hope,  I  have 
not  given  any  Cause  to  say,  that,  there  has  appeared  in 
any  of  my  Characters,  a  partial  Tincture.  I  have  through- 
out consulted  nothing,  but  my  unbiass'd  Mind.  Wherever 
I  have  praised,  I  have  no  Desire  of  pleasing;  wherever 
decry'd,  no  Fear  of  offending.  Broughton,  by  his  many 
Merit,  has  bid  the  highest,  therefore  has  my  Heart.  I 
rcallv  think  all  will  poll  with  me,  who  poll  with  the  same 
Principle.  Sure  there  is  some  standing  Reason  for  this 
Preference.  What  can  be  stronger  than  to  say,  that  for 
Seventeen  or  Eighteen  Years,  he  has  fought  every  able 
Boxer  that  appeared  against  him,  and  has  never  yet  been 
l)eat?  This  being  the  Case,  we  may  venture  to  conclude 
from  it.  But  not  to  build  alone  on  this,  let  us  examine 
farther  into  his  Merits.  What  is  it  that  he  wants?  Has  he 
not  all  that  others  want,  and  all  the  best  can  have  ?  Strength 
equal  to  what  is  human.  Skill  and  Judgement  equal  to  what 
can  be  acquired,  undebauched  Wind,  and  a  bottom  Spirit 
never  to  pronounce  the  word  Enough.  He  fights  the  Stick 
as  well  as  most  Men,  and  unrlerstands  a  good  deal  of  the 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Small-Sword.  This  Practise  has  given  him  the  Distinction 
of  Time  and  Measure  beyond  the  rest.  He  slops  as  regularly 
as  the  Swordsman,  and  carries  his  Blows  truely  in  the  Line; 
he  steps  not  back,  distrusting  of  himself  to  stop  a  Blow,  and 
piddle  in  the  Return,  with  an  Arm  unaided  by  his  Body, 
producing  but  a  kind  of  fiyflap  Blows;  such  as  the  Pastry 
Cooks  used  to  beat  those  Insects  from  their  Tarts  and 
Cheese-cakes.  No  —  Broughton  steps  bold  and  firmly  in, 
bids  a  welcome  to  the  coming  Blow,  receives  it  with  his 
guardian  Arm;  then  with  a  general  Summons  of  his 
swelling  Muscles,  and  his  firm  Body  seconding  his  Arm, 
and  supplying  it  with  all  its  Weight,  pours  the  Pile- 
driving  Force  upon  his  Man. 

That  I  may  not  be  thought  particular  in  dwelling  too 
long  upon  Broughton,  I  leave  him  with  this  Assertion, 
that  as  he,  I  believe,  will  scarce  trust  a  Battle  to  a  warning 
Age,  I  shall  never  think  he  is  to  be  beaten,  till  I  see  him 
beat.  .  .  . 

Much  about  this  Time,  there  was  one  Whitaker  who 
fought  the  Venetian  Gondelier.  He  was  a  very  strong 
Fellow,  but  a  clumsy  Boxer.  He  had  two  qualifications, 
very  much  contributing  to  help  him  out.  He  was  very 
extraordinary  for  his  throwing,  and  contriving  to  pitch  his 
Weighty  Body  on  the  fallen  Man.  The  other  was  that  he 
was  a  hardy  Fellow,  and  would  bear  a  deal  of  Beating. 
This  was  the  Man  pitched  upon  to  fight  the  Venetian. 
I  was  at  Slaughter's  Coffee-House  when  the  Match  was 
made,  by  a  Gentleman  of  an  advanced  Station ;  he  sent  for 
Fig  to  procure  a  proper  Man  for  him ;  he  told  him  to  take 
care  of  his  Man,  because  it  was  for  a  large  Sum;  and  the 
Venetian  was  a  Man  of  extraordinary  Strength,  and  famous 
for  breaking  the  Jaw-bone  in  Boxing.  Fig  replied,  in  his 
rough  Manner,  I  do  not  know  Master,  but  he  may  break  one 
156 


The  Champions 

of  his  own  Countrymen's  Jaw-bones  with  his  Fist;  but, 
I  will  bring  him  a  man,  and  he  shall  not  break  his  Jaw  bone 
with  a  Sledge-hammer  in  his  hand. 

The  battle  was  fought  at  Fig's  Amphitheatre,  before  a 
splendid  company,  the  politest  House  of  that  kind  I  ever 
saw.  While  the  Gondolier  was  stripping,  my  Heart  yearned 
for  my  CountrjTnan.  His  Arm  took  up  all  Observation; 
it  was  surprisingly  large,  long  and  muscular.  He  pitched 
himself  for\vard  with  his  right  Leg,  and  his  Arm  full  ex- 
tended, and,  as  Whitaker  approached,  gave  him  a  Blow  on 
the  side  of  the  Head,  that  knocked  him  quite  off  the  Stage, 
which  was  remarkable  for  its  Height.  Whitaker's  Misfor- 
tune in  his  Fall  was  then  the  Grandeur  of  the  Company, 
on  which  account  they  suffered  no  Common  People  in, 
that  usually  sit  on  the  Ground  and  line  the  Stage  round. 
It  was  then  all  clear,  and  Wliilaker  had  nothing  to  stop  him 
but  the  bottom.  There  was  a  general  foreign  Huzza  on  the 
Side  of  the  Venetian,  pronouncing  our  Countryman's 
Downfal;  but  Whitaker  took  no  more  Time  than  was  re- 
quired to  get  up  again,  when  finding  his  Fault  in  standing 
out  to  the  length  of  the  other's  Arm,  he,  with  a  little  stoop, 
ran  boldly  in  beyond  the  heavy  Mallet,  and  with  one  English 
Peg  in  the  Stomach  (quite  a  new  Thing  to  Foreigners) 
brought  him  on  his  Breech.  The  Blow  carried  too  much  of 
the  English  Rudeness  for  him  to  bear,  and  finding  himself 
.so  unmannerly  used,  he  scorned  to  have  any  more  doings 
with  his  slovenly  Fists. 

So  fine  a  House  was  too  engaging  to  Fig,  not  to  court 
another.  He  therefore  stepped  up,  and  told  the  Gentle- 
men that  they  might  think  he  had  picked  out  the  best  Man 
in  London  on  this  Occasion :  But  to  convince  them  to  the 
contrary,  he  said,  that,  if  they  would  come  that  Day  se'n- 
night,  he  would  bring  a  Man  who  should  beat  this  Whitaker 

157 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

in  ten  Minutes  by  fair  hitting.  This  brought  very  near 
as  great  and  fine  a  Company  as  the  Week  before.  The 
Man  was  Nathaniel  Peartree,  who  knowing  the  other's 
Bottom,  and  his  deadly  way  of  Flinging,  took  a  most  judi- 
cious Method  to  beat  him.  —  Let  his  Character  come  in 
here  —  He  was  a  most  admirable  Boxer,  and  I  do  not  know 
one  he  was  not  a  match  for,  before  he  lost  his  Finger.  He 
was  famous,  like  Pipes,  for  fighting  at  the  Face,  but  stronger 
in  his  Blows.  He  knew  Whitaker's  Hardiness,  and  doubt- 
ing of  his  being  able  to  give  him  Beating  enough,  cunningly 
determined  to  fight  at  his  Eyes.  His  judgement  carried  in 
his  Arm  so  well,  that  in  about  Six  Minutes  both  Whitaker's 
Eyes  were  shut  up ;  when  groping  about  awhile  for  his  Man, 
and  finding  him  not,  he  wisely  gave  out,  with  these  odd 
Words  —  "Damme,  I  am  not  beat,  but  what  signifies  my 
fighting  if  I  cannot  see  my  man  ?  " 

Captain  John  Godfrey 

Tom  Cribb  <^        <:iy        -;iy        ^:;:y        'Qy        ^v^ 

WHEN  some  proud  earl  or  rich  patrician  dies, 
Unmoved  we  mark  the  storied  marble  rise, 
Unmoved  we  read  the  praises  blazoned  forth, 
And  doubt  the  need  if  giv'n  to  wealth  or  worth; 
But  truth  shall  guide  this  record,  and  proclaim 
Who  raised  himself  without  a  crime  to  fame; 
Whose  heart  was  tender  as  his  arm  was  strong; 
Who  still  upheld  the  right,  abhorred  the  wrong; 
Who  stood  unconquered  champion  in  that  field, 
Where  hardy  heroes  nature's  weapons  wield  — 
"  'Twas  poor  Tom  Cribb  —  beneath  his  ashes  lie : 
Peace  to  his  spirit's  immortality!" 

H.  D.  Miles 

158 


The  Champions 

Jack  Jackson  '<;>        -cy        ^;:>        'Oy        >«;>      ^;:v, 

'  I  ^HERE  were  the  Lades,  the  Hangers,  the  Bullocks, 
-*-  the  Vernons,  but  give  me  Jack  Jackson,  as  he  stood 
alone  amid  the  throng.  I  can  see  him  now,  as  I  saw  him  in 
'84,  walking  down  Holborn  Hill,  towards  Smithfield. 
He  had  on  a  scarlet  coat,  worked  in  gold  at  the  button -holes, 
ruffles,  and  frill  of  fine  lace,  a  small  white  stock,  no  collar 
(they  were  not  then  invented),  a  looped  hat  with  a  broad 
black  band,  buff  knee  breeches,  and  long  silk  strings, 
striped  white  silk  stockings,  pumps,  and  paste  buckles; 
his  waistcoat  was  pale  blue  satin,  sprigged  with  white. 
It  was  impossible  to  look  on  his  fine  ample  chest,  his  noble 
shoulders,  his  waist,  (if  anything  too  small),  his  large,  but 
not  too  large  hips  (the  fulcrum  of  the  human  form,  whether 
male  or  female),  his  limbs,  his  balustrade  calf  and  beauti- 
fully turned  but  not  over  delicate  ankle,  his  firm  foot,  and 
peculiarly  small  hand,  without  thinking  that  nature  had 
sent  him  or.  earth  as  a  model.  On  he  went  at  a  good  five 
miles  and  a  half  an  hour,  the  envy  of  all  men,  and  the 
admiration  of  all  women. 

As  regards  his  face  nature  had  not  been  bountiful;  his 
forehead  was  rather  low,  and  the  mode  he  wore  his  hair 
made  it  peculiarly  so.  His  cheek  bones  were  high,  and 
his  nose  and  mouth  coarse.  His  ears  projected  too  much 
from  his  head,  but  his  eyes  were  eyes  to  look  at  rather 
than  look  with ;  they  were  full  and  piercing,  and  formed 
a  great  portion  of  his  power  as  a  pugilist  —  with  them  he 
riveted  his  men. 

Anatomists  of  the  first  standing  examined  Jackson,  and 
artists  and  sculptors  without  number  took  sketches  and 
models  of  his  arm;  but  it  was  the  extraordinary  proportion 
of  the  man  throughout  that  formed  the  wonder. 

159 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

After  1795  Mr.  Jackson  resolved  to  teach  others  the 
art  in  which  he  himself  excelled.  For  an  instructor  he 
had  that  invaluable  requisite,  temper;  he  was  never  too 
fast  with  his  pupils.  This  made  his  initiatory  lessons 
tedious  to  young  gentlemen  who  go  ahead,  and  it  may 
readily  be  conceived  that  amid  the  aristocracy  of  England 
he  had  plenty  of  rough  assailants  to  deal  with.  But  he 
was  always  on  his  guard ;  there  was  no  chance  of  rushing 
suddenly  in  and  taking  Jackson  by  surprise  —  he  could  not 
be  flurried.  Amid  the  other  qualifications  he  had  studied 
Lavater,  and  managed  to  reckon  up  his  customers  at  first 
sight,  and  knew  what  he  had  to  trust  to.  It  had  been  said 
"he  defied  any  man  to  hit  him";  this  is  the  truth  but  not 
the  whole  truth  —  he  defied  any  man  to  hit  whilst  he 
(Jackson)  stood  merely  on  the  defensive;  in  a  fight,  of 
course,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  being  hit. 

His  sparring  was  elegant  and  easy.  He  was  peculiarly 
light  upon  his  feet,  a  good  judge  of  distance,  and  when 
he  indulged  his  friends  with  a  taste  of  his  real  quality,  the 
delivery  of  his  blow  was  only  observable  in  its  effect. 
It  literally  came  like  lightning,  and  was  felt  before  it  was 
seen.  Most  big  men  are  comparatively  slow,  but  he  was 
as  rapid  as  Owen  Swift  or  Johnny  Walker,  and  this,  too, 
when  upwards  of  fifty  years  of  age. 

Jackson  not  only  told  you  what  to  do,  but  why  you 
should  do  it ;  on  this  essential  point,  many  capital  instruc- 
tors are  and  have  been  deficient.  The  want  of  this  power  of 
explaining  the  purpose  of  an  action  made  young  Dutch 
Sam  and  Richard  Curtis  bad  instructors,  though  they  were 
finished  pugilists,  and,  which  does  not  always  follow, 
capital  sparrers. 

Jackson  was  not  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  art  never 
ends.  If  there  was  anything  new  in  the  gymnastic,  eques- 
160 


The  Champions 

trian,  or  pedestrian  way,  there  be  assured  was  Jackson; 
not  merely  witnessing  the  exhibition,  but  examining  the 
means  by  which  the  effects  were  produced.  He  was  con- 
sequently often  at  Astley's  and  the  Surrey,  when  Ireland, 
the  jumper,  was  there,  and  knew  all  the  famous  fencers, 
funambulists,  dancers,  and  riders  of  his  day,  and  his  day 
was  a  long  one. 

Of  his  private  character,  what  can  be  said  more  than  that 
all  his  pupils  became  his  friends.  Save  with  Dan  Mendoza, 
it  is  not  known  that  he  ever  had  a  quarrel.  He  was  a 
careful  man,  not  a  mean  man  —  saving,  but  not  penurious. 
It  is  to  be  remembered,  too,  from  his  peculiar  situation, 
continued  calls  were  made  upon  his  purse  by  the  ruffianly 
and  profligate,  who  claimed  a  brotherhood  that  he  utterly 
and  properly  repudiated. 

H.  D.  Miles 

Jack  Randall  "O       <:>       <:i..       ^o        <iy        '<cy 


TN  a  twenty-four  feet  ring  a  better  general  or  a  more 
-^  consummate  tactician  was  never  seen:  judgment  and 
decision  were  manifest  in  all  his  movements.  His  heart 
is  in  the  right  place;  his  head  cool  and  collected  to  take 
advantage  in  the  most  prompt  style  of  the  disorder  of 
the  opponent  before  him;  his  mind  looking  confidently 
forward  to  nothing  but  victory. 

In  short,  as  a  pugilist  he  is  Nonpareil.  Randall's  style 
seems  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  the  art  of  self-defence.  Out  of 
the  ropes,  however,  he  is  one  of  the  most  simple  of  human 
beings.  Yet  Lavater,  with  all  his  knowledge  of  physiog- 
nomy, might  have  looked  at  his  mug,  and  looked  at  it  again 
and  again,  and  not  have  discovered  his  real  character  from 
M  i6i 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

the  lineaments  of  his  face.  If  Randall  cannot  express  him- 
self in  the  sentimental  manner  of  Sterne,  gammon  the  tender 
pa  of  society  with  the  platonic  taste  of  a  Rousseau,  or  wind 
up  a  tale  with  the  speciousness  of  a  Joseph  Surface,  he  can  be 
backed  against  them  all  for  the  possession  of  genuine  feeling. 

A  common  observer  might  say  he  was  a  rough,  illiterate 
fellow,  for  he  does  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  deficiencies. 
He  has  no  affectation  about  his  composition  —  deception 
does  not  belong  to  him,  and  bluntness  is  his  forte.  He  is 
indignant  at  what  he  thinks  wrong;  and  is  not  over  nice  in 
his  expressions,  whenever  such  a  subject  is  the  theme  of 
argument.  He  admires  truth;  and  his  honesty,  if  not 
Brutus-like,  is  as  staunch  and  incorruptible.  A  liar  will 
be  sure  to  hear  of  his  fault  from  him.  Though  educa- 
tion has  done  little  for  him,  experience  has  given  him  "the 
time  of  day." 

But,  kind  reader,  if  thou  hadst  seen  him  relieve  an  ould 
Irish  woman,  at  "peep  of  day"  with  the  only  half-crown 
he  was  master  of,  as  she  was  going  to  market  with  an  empty 
pocket  and  basket,  anxious  to  support  two  of  her  orphan 
grandchildren  to  prevent  their  going  to  the  parish,  when 
she  had  solicited  him  for  only  twopence  to  aid  her  chari- 
table design ;  —  if  you  had  seen  the  effect  of  her  plaintive 
tale,  and  the  blessings  she  invoked  upon  his  head  for  this 
real  act  of  benevolence;  his  turning  aside  to  weep;  and  the 
jeers  he  experienced  from  his  companions  upon  the  weak- 
ness he  had  displayed ;  —  if  you  had  also  witnessed  him 
pushing  the  crowd  aside  the  instant  he  was  proclaimed  the 
conqueror  over  Turner,  to  grapple  with  the  hand  of  his 
great  rival  in  friendship,  and  seen  the  big  tear  stealing  down 
his  cheek,  in  admiration  of  the  bravery  of  his  opponent;  — 
if  you  had  known  as  the  writer  did,  of  his  refusal  to  prose- 
cute a  man  and  his  wife  whom  he  had  trusted  in  the  bosom 
162 


The  Champions 

of  his  family,  and  who,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  had 
robbed  him  at  various  periods  of  £300  —  I  don't  know 
what  you  might  have  said  of  him,  but  Burns  would  have 
told  us,  despite  his  defects,  "a  man's  a  man  for  a'  that." 
And  such  a  man  was  Jack  Randall. 

H.  D.  Miles 

II 

OF  all  the  great  men  of  this  age,  in  poetry,  philosophy, 
or  pugilism,  there  is  no  one  of  such  transcendent 
talent  as  Randall;  —  no  one  who  combines  the  finest  natu- 
ral powers  with  the  most  elegant  and  finished  acquired  ones. 

The  late  Professor  Stewart  (who  has  left  the  learned 
ring)  is  acknowledged  to  be  clever  in  philosophy,  but  he 
is  a  left-handed  metaphysical  fighter  at  best,  and  cannot 
be  relied  upon  at  closing  with  his  subject.  Lord  Byron 
is  a  powerful  poet,  with  a  mind  weighing  fourteen  stone; 
but  he  is  too  sombre  a  hitter,  and  is  apt  to  lose  his  temper.  — 
Randall  has  no  defect,  or  at  least  he  has  not  yet  betrayed 
the  appearance  of  one.  His  figure  is  remarkable,  when 
peeled,  for  its  statue-like  beauty,  and  nothing  can  equal 
the  alacrity  with  which  he  uses  either  hand,  or  the  coolness 
with  which  he  receives.  His  goodness  on  his  legs,  Boxiana 
(a  Lord  Eldon  in  the  skill  and  caution  of  his  judgments) 
assures  us,  is  unequalled.  He  doubles  up  an  opponent,  as  a 
friend  lately  delcared,  as  easily  as  though  he  were  picking 
a  flower,  or  pinching  a  girl's  cheek. 

He  is  about  to  fight  Jos.  Hudson,  who  challenged  him 
lately  at  the  Royal  Tennis  Court.  Randall  declared 
that  "though  he  had  declined  fighting,  he  would  accom- 
modate Joshua";  a  kind  and  benevolent  reply,  which 
does  equal  honour  to  his  head  and  heart.  The  editor  of 
this  little  volume,  like  Goldfinch  in  the  Road  to  Ruin, 
163 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

"would  not  stay  away  for  a  thousand  pounds."  He  has 
already  looked  about  for  a  tall  horse  and  a  taxed  cart, 
and  he  has  some  hopes  of  compassing  a  drab  coat  and  a 
white  hat,  for  he  has  no  wish  to  appear  singular  at  such 
scenes. 

Ill 

"  None  but  himself  can  be  his  parallel ! " 

WITH  marble -coloured  shoulders,  —  and  keen  eyes, 
Protected  by  a  forehead  broad  and  white,  — 
And  hair  cut  close  lest  it  impede  the  sight. 
And  clenched  hands,  firm,  and  of  punishing  size,  — 
Steadily  held,  or  motion'd  wary-wise. 
To  hit  or  stop,  —  and  kerchief  too  drawn  tight 
O'er  the  unyielding  loins,  to  keep  from  flight 
The  inconstant  wind,  that  all  too  often  flies,  — 
The  Nonpareil  stands !     Fame,  whose  bright  eyes  run 

o'er 
With  joy  to  see  a  Chicken  of  her  own, 
Dips  her  rich  pen  in  claret,  and  writes  down 
Under  the  letter  R,  first  on  the  score, 
"Randall,  —  John,  —  Irish  Parents  —  age  not  known, — 
Good  with  both  hands,  and  only  ten  stone  four ! " 

/.  Hamilton  Reynolds 


164 


XIII 
THE  ADVENTURERS 

Flinter        "o         "vy         '^^         <2y         "^z^         '^o 

/^X  the  day  of  my  arrival  I  dined  at  the  table  d'hote 
^~^  of  the  principal  inn,  kept  by  a  Genoese.  The 
company  was  very  miscellaneous,  French,  Germans,  and 
Spaniards,  all  speaking  in  their  respective  languages, 
whilst  at  the  ends  of  the  table,  confronting  each  other, 
sat  two  Catalan  merchants,  one  of  whom  weighed  nearly 
twenty  stone,  grunting  across  the  board  in  their  harsh 
dialect.  Long,  however,  before  dinner  was  concluded, 
the  conversation  was  entirely  engrossed  and  the  attention 
of  all  present  directed  to  an  individual  who  sat  on  one  side 
of  the  bulky  Catalan.  He  was  a  thin  man  of  about 
the  middle  height,  with  a  remarkably  red  face,  and  some- 
thing in  his  eyes  which,  if  not  a  squint,  bore  a  striking  re- 
semblance to  it.  He  was  dressed  in  a  blue  military  frock, 
and  seemed  to  take  much  more  pleasure  in  haranguing 
than  in  the  fare  which  was  set  before  him.  He  spoke 
perfectly  good  Spanish,  yet  his  voice  betrayed  something  of 
a  foreign  accent.  For  a  long  time  he  descanted  with  im- 
mense volut)ility  on  war  and  all  its  circumstances,  freely 
criticising  the  conduct  of  the  generals,  both  Carlist  and 
Christinos,  in  the  present  struggle,  till  at  last  he  exclaimed, 
165 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

"Had  I  but  twenty  thousand  men  allowed  me  by  the  govern- 
ment, I  would  bring  the  war  to  a  conclusion  in  six  months." 

"Pardon  me,  Sir,"  said  a  Spaniard  who  sat  at  the  table, 
"the  curiosity  'VYhich  induces  me  to  request  the  favour  of 
your  distinguished  name." 

"I  am  Flinter,"  replied  the  individual  in  the  military 
frock,  "a  name  which  is  in  the  mouth  of  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  Spain.  I  am  Flinter  the  Irishman, 
just  escaped  from  the  Basque  provinces  and  the  claws  of 
Don  Carlos.  On  the  decease  of  Ferdinand  I  declared  for 
Isabella,  esteeming  it  the  duty  of  every  good  cavalier  and 
Irishman  in  the  Spanish  service  to  do  so.  You  have  all 
heard  of  my  exploits,  and  permit  me  to  tell  you  they  would 
have  been  yet  more  glorious  had  not  jealousy  been  at 
work  and  cramped  my  means.  Two  years  ago  I  was 
despatched  to  Estremadura,  to  organize  the  militias. 
The  bands  of  Gomez  and  Cabrera  entered  the  province  and 
spread  devastation  around.  They  found  me,  however,  at 
my  post ;  and  had  I  been  properly  seconded  by  those  under 
my  command,  the  two  rebels  would  never  have  returned  to 
their  master  to  boast  of  their  success.  I  stood  behind  my 
intrenchments.  A  man  advanced  and  summoned  us  to 
surrender.  '  Who  are  you  ? '  I  demanded.  *  I  am  Cabrera,' 
he  replied;  'And  I  am  Flinter,'  I  retorted,  flourishing  my 
sabre;  'retire  to  your  battalions  or  you  will  forthwith  die 
the  death.'  He  was  awed  and  did  as  I  commanded.  In 
an  hour  we  surrendered.  I  was  led  a  prisoner  to  the  Basque 
provinces;  and  the  Carlists  rejoiced  in  the  capture  they 
had  made,  for  the  name  of  Flinter  had  long  sounded 
amongst  the  Carlist  ranks.  I  was  flung  into  a  loathsome 
dungeon,  where  I  remained  twenty  months.  I  was  cold; 
I  was  naked;  but  I  did  not  on  that  account  despond,  my 
spirit  was  too  indomitable  for  such  weakness.  My  keeper 
166 


The  Adventurers 

at  last  pitied  my  misfortunes.  He  said  that  '  it  grieved  him 
to  see  so  valiant  a  man  perish  in  inglorious  confinement. ' 
We  laid  a  plan  to  escape  together;  disguises  were  provided, 
and  we  made  the  attempt.  We  passed  unobserved  til!  we 
arrived  at  the  Carlist  lines  above  Bilbao;  there  we  were 
stopped.  My  presence  of  mind,  however,  did  not  desert 
me.  I  was  disguised  as  a  carman,  as  a  Catalan,  and  the 
coolness  of  my  answers  deceived  my  interrogators.  We 
were  permitted  to  pass,  and  soon  were  safe  within  the  walls 
of  Bilbao.  There  was  an  illumination  that  night  in  the 
town,  for  the  lion  had  burst  his  toils,  Flinter  had  escaped, 
and  was  once  more  returned  to  reanimate  a  drooping 
cause.  I  have  just  arrived  at  Santander  on  my  way  to 
Madrid,  where  I  intend  to  ask  of  the  government  a  com- 
mand, with  twenty  thousand  men." 

Poor  Flinter!  a  braver  heart  and  a  more  gasconading 
mouth  were  surely  never  united  in  the  same  body.  He 
proceeded  to  Madrid,  and  through  the  influence  of  the 
British  ambassador,  who  was  his  friend,  he  obtained  the 
command  of  a  small  division,  with  which  he  contrived  to 
surprise  and  defeat,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Toledo,  a 
body  of  the  Carlists,  commanded  by  Orcjita,  whose  num- 
bers more  than  trebled  his  own.  In  reward  for  this  ex- 
ploit he  was  persecuted  by  the  government,  which,  at  that 
time,  was  the  moderado  or  juste  milieu,  with  the  most 
relentless  animosity;  the  prime  minister,  Ofalia,  supporting 
with  all  his  influence  numerous  and  ridiculous  accusations 
of  plunder  and  robbery  brought  against  the  too  successful 
general  by  the  Carlist  canons  of  Toledo.  He  was  likewise 
charged  with  a  dereliction  of  duty,  in  having  permitted, 
after  the  Viattle  of  Valdepefias,  which  he  likewise  won  in  the 
most  gallant  manner,  the  Carlist  force  to  take  possession 
of  the  mines  of  Almaden,  although  the  government,  who 
167 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

were  bent  on  his  ruin,  had  done  all  in  their  power  to  prevent 
him  from  following  up  his  successes  by  denying  him  the 
slightest  supplies  and  reinforcements.  The  fruits  of  victory 
thus  wrested  from  him,  his  hopes  blighted,  a  morbid 
melancholy  seized  upon  the  Irishman;  he  resigned  his 
command,  and  in  less  than  ten  months  from  the  period 
when  I  saw  him  at  Santander,  afforded  his  dastardly 
and  malignant  enemies  a  triumph  which  satisfied  even 
them,  by  cutting  his  own  throat  with  a  razor. 

Ardent  spirits  of  foreign  climes,  who  hope  to  distinguish 
yourselves  in  the  service  of  Spain,  and  to  earn  honours  and 
rewards,  remember  the  fate  of  Columbus,  and  of  another 
as  brave  and  as  ardent  —  Flinter ! 

George  Borrow 

Jim  Bowie    -^^y        <iy        <:>        'Qy        ''v>        <:> 

*  I  "HE  first  day  after  crossing  the  Mississippi  the 
-*-  Missionary  was  overtaken  by  a  horseman,  dressed 
in  a  buckskin  garb,  armed  with  rifle,  pistols,  and  a  hunting 
knife.  They  entered  into  conversation,  and  he  found  his 
travelling  companion  an  intelligent,  agreeable  gentleman, 
well  acquainted  with  the  geography  of  the  country.  They 
journeyed  together  for  several  days,  one  not  asking  the  other 
his  name  or  his  business,  until  they  reached  a  town  in  Texas 
which  had  been  made  the  head-quarters  of  desperadoes  and 
refugees  from  justice  from  every  State.  There  he  gave 
notice  he  would  preach  at  night  in  the  court-house.  At 
the  hour  appointed  the  court-house  was  filled  with  men, 
only  a  few  women.  He  said  he  gave  out  a  hymn  and  all 
sang  it  and  sang  it  well ;  but  when  he  took  his  text  and  at- 
tempted to  preach,  he  was  saluted  by  one  with  the  bray  of  an 
ass,  another  by  the  hooting  of  an  owl,  and  kindred  noises. 
168 


The  Adventurers 

Disliking  to  leave  without  preaching,  he  waited  until  the 
interruptions  subsided,  for  three  several  times,  when  his 
travelling  companion,  whom  he  did  not  know  was  present, 
arose  in  the  midst  of  the  congregation  and  said,  "Men,  this 
man  has  come  here  to  preach  to  you  —  you  need  preaching 

to,  and  I'll  be  d d  if  he  shan't  preach  to  you.    The  next 

man  that  disturbs  him  shall  fight  me.  My  name's  Jim 
Bowie."  The  preacher  added  that  after  the  announce- 
ment of  the  name  Jim  Bowie  he  never  had  a  more  respect- 
ful and  attentive  congregation.  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  say  that  James  Bowie  laid  down  his  life  at  the  Alamo,  in 
the  State  of  Te.xas.  Greece,  in  ancient  times,  had  her 
Thermopylae,  from  which  only  three  persons  escaped. 
The  Alamo  was  the  American  ThermopykT,  from  whence 
only  one  woman  and  a  negro  boy  escaped. 

Travis,  the  commandant,  Crockett  and  James  Bowie, 
his  subordinates,  a  trio  of  heroes!  Patriotism  mourns 
their  fate,  and  memory  will  bedew  their  graves  with  her 
tears  as  long  as  noble  deeds  move  the  human  heart  with 
pleasurable  emotions.  In  truth,  every  man  who  fell  at  the 
Alamo  was  a  hero,  because  not  one  asked  or  expected  quar- 
ter.    They   fought   to   protect   the   infant  settlements  of 

Texas  from  savage  destruction. 

Major  Truman 

Walker  -o        -o       ^o       '■;:>       -cv       ^^i:^       ^^ 


THE   Gray-Eyed    Man   of    Destiny"— the  greatest 
filibuster  of   modern   times  —  was  a    lawyer,   and 
followed  the  profession  in  several  States.     He  also  studied 
two  other  professions  —  medicine  and  divinity.     He  was 
a  Tennesseean;   .small  in  stature,  quiet  in  manner,  always 
169 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

self-possessed,  and  attracted  the  eye  chiefly  by  his  own  enor- 
mous gray  orbs,  which  gave  him  the  title  above.     He  was  a 
born  adventurer.     Yet  was  he  gentle  in  speech  and  subdued 
in  demeanour.     His  information  was  wide.     He  frequently 
had  personal  altercations  and  fought  several  duels,  but 
went  into  conflicts  of  every  kind  with  phenomenal  compos- 
ure.    His  habits  were  good,  and  he  was  generally  well  liked. 
A  mighty  visionary  was  he.     His  ambition  was  to  effect  a 
conquest  on  the  Isthmus  as  a  nucleus  for  a  broad  dominion 
to  be  extended  into  Mexico  and  South  America.    In  both 
Honduras   and   Nicaragua   he   was   a   conqueror.      The 
land  was  his,  and  the  people  at  his  feet,  but  Anglo-Saxon 
power  overthrew  him.     After  being  driven  out  of  Nica- 
ragua, he   repaired   to   New  York  to  devise  other  plans 
of  conquest.     Colonel  E.  C.  Marshall  there  met  him  by 
chance,  under  the  gas-light.     He  was  enthusiastic  over  his 
Honduras  scheme  —  said  that  it  dwarfed  all  his  former 
plans.     He  was  going  to  establish  a  great  republic  between 
the  continents.     It  is  believed  by  those  who  knew  him  that 
had  he  succeeded  in  establishing  his  power  he  would  have 
been  a  wise  and  beneficent  ruler.     His  political  knowledge 
was  great.     General  Walker  had  all  Europe  and  half  of 
America  against  him.     He  had  not  been  long  in  Honduras 
when  the  forces  from  a  British  fleet,  well   knowing  that 
Uncle  Sam  would  interfere,  captured  him  and  turned  him 
over  to  the  native  Honduras  authorities.     He  was  promptly 
shot.     The  fate  of  Walker  was  that  of  Henry  A.  Crabbe 
and  State  Senator  McCoun,   two  lawyers  of  this  State, 
who  led   an   expedition    into    Sonora,    Mexico,   in    1857. 
Crabbe  was  from  Tennessee,  and  practised  law  in  Stock- 
ton.    He  was  one  term  senator  from  San  Joaquin.     His 
name,  which  was  that  of  his  father,  once  prominent  at  the 
Tennessee  bar,  was  before  the  Know  Nothing  caucus  with 
170 


The  Adventurers 

those  of  Foote  and  Ferguson  for  United  States  Senator. 
McCoun  was  in  the  Senate  from  Contra  Costa  County. 
He  was  a  Kentuckian.  They  entered  Sonora  with  a  few 
hundred  men,  relpng  upon  an  uprising  of  the  people 
against  the  Government.  They  were  attacked  by  a  force 
largely  superior  in  numbers  and  retreated  into  a  church, 
which  was  set  on  fire  by  a  burning  fagot  attached  to  an 
arrow  shot  into  the  roof.  Compelled  to  march  out,  they 
were  captured  in  a  body,  and  summarily  and  ignominiously 
put  to  death. 

They  were  stationed  in  rows  in  front  of  their  open 
graves,  hands  tied  behind  them,  and  shot  in  the  back. 
McCoun,  on  hearing  the  command  to  fire,  quickly  faced 
about,  and  received  his  bullet  in  his  breast.  He  was  a 
man  of  commanding  form  and  noble  spirit.  Crabbe, 
who  had  a  wife,  a  Mexican  lady,  in  California,  was  given 
time  to  write  to  her  a  letter,  and  he  was  then  beheaded. 

Major  Truman 

II 

T  TE  was  a  brick :  let  this  be  said 

•'-  -*•  .Vbove  my  brave  dishonored  dead. 

I  ask  no  more,  this  is  not  much, 

Yet  I  disdain  a  colder  touch 

To  memory  as  dear  as  his; 

For  he  was  true  as  any  star, 

And  brave  as  Yuba's  grizzlies  are, 

Yet  gentle  as  a  panther  is. 

Mouthing  her  young  in  her  first  fierce  kiss; 

Tall,  courtly,  grand  as  any  king, 

Yet  simple  as  a  child  at  play, 

In  camp  and  court  the  same  alway, 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

And  never  moved  at  anything; 

A  dash  of  sadness  in  his  air, 

Born,  may  be,  of  his  over  care, 

And,  may  be,  born  of  a  despair 

In  early  love  —  I  never  knew; 

I  question'd  not  as  many  do, 

Of  things  as  sacred  as  this  is; 

I  only  knew  that  he  to  me 

Was  all  a  father,  friend,  could  be; 

I  sought  to  know  no  more  than  this 
Of  history  of  him  or  his. 
A  piercing  eye,  a  princely  air, 
A  presence  like  a  chevalier. 
Half  angel  and  half  Lucifer; 
Fair  fingers,  jewell'd  manifold 
With  great  gems  set  in  hoops  of  gold; 
Sombrero  black,  with  plume  of  snow 
That  swept  his  long  silk  locks  below; 
A  red  serape  with  bars  of  gold. 
Heedless  falling,  fold  on  fold; 
A  sash  of  silk,  where  flashing  swung 
A  sword  as  swift  as  serpent's  tongue, 
In  sheath  of  silver  chased  in  gold; 
A  face  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
Of  mingled  pleading  and  disdain 
With  shades  of  glory  and  of  grief; 
And  Spanish  spurs  with  bells  of  steel 
That  dash'd  and  dangl'd  at  the  heel  — 
The  famous  filibuster  chief 
Stood  by  his  tent  'mid  tall  brown  trees 
That  top  the  fierce  Cordilleras, 
With  brawn  arm  arch'd  above  his  brow; 
Stood  still  —  he  stands,  a  picture,  now  - 
172 


The  Adventurers 

Long  gazing  down  the  sunset  seas. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him,  he  died 

In  all  disgrace;   say  of  the  dead 

His  heart  was  black,  his  hands  were  red, 

Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied; 

Gloat  over  it  all  undenied. 

I  only  say  that  he  to  me, 

Whatever  he  to  others  was, 

Was  truer  far  than  any  one 

That  I  have  known  beneath  the  sun, 

Sinner,  Saint,  or  Pharisee, 

As  boy  or  man,  for  any  cause; 

I  simply  say  he  was  my  friend 

When  strong  of  hand  and  fair  of  fame: 

Dead  and  disgraced,  I  stand  the  same 

To  him,  and  so  shall  to  the  end. 

Joaquin  Miller 

The  Breitmann         ^^        -^        ^>        -^        "^ 

iUR  first  glimpse  of  the  true  vigorous  Hans  is  in  the 
story  of  his  feats  in  the  gymnasium : 

Hans  Breitmann  shoincd  dc  Turners; 

Dey  make  shimnastig  dricks; 
He  .stoot  on  de  middle  of  de  floor, 

Und  put  oop  a  fifdy-si.\. 
Und  den  he  drows  it  to  de  roof, 

Und  schwig  off  a  trcadful  trink: 
De  veight  coom  toomple  back  on  his  hcadt, 

Und  py  shinks!  he  didn't  vink! 

Hans  Breitmann  shoincd  dr  '['urners; 
De  ladies  coomcd  in  to  sec; 

•73 


O 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Dey  poot  dem  in  de  blace  for  de  gals, 

All  in  der  gal-lerie. 
Dey  ashk:   "Vhere  ish  der  Breitmann?" 

Und  dey  tremple  mit  awe  and  fear 
Vhen  dey  see  him  schwingen  py  de  toes, 

A  trinken'  lager  beer. 

The  Breitmann  here  is  of  the  tribe  of  Falstaff.  One 
need  not  call  Mr.  Leland  a  Shakespeare  to  point  out  there 
is  much  that  is  Falstaffian  in  his  hero. 

Later,  however,  the  Breitmann's  hedonistic  creed  comes 
forth.  It  is  sheer  Omarism,  even  to  the  brink  of  wist- 
fulness  and  that  persistent  consciousness  of  the  transi- 
toriness  of  all  enjoyable  things :  sheer  Omarism,  but  better, 
for  it  has  vigour  behind  it.     Thus: 

O  life,  mein  dear,  at  pest  or  vorst, 

Ish  boot  a  vancy  ball, 
Its  cratest  shoy  a  vild  gallop, 

Vhere  madness  goferns  all. 
Und  should  dey  toorn  ids  gas-light  oflF, 

Und  nefer  leafe  a  shbark, 
Sdill  I'd  find  my  vay  to  Heafen  —  or 

Dy  lips,  lofe,  in  de  dark. 

O  crown  your  het  mit  roses,  lofe! 

O  keep  a  liddel  sprung! 
Oonendless  wisdom  ish  but  dis: 

To  go  it  vhile  you're  yung! 
Und  age  vas  nefer  coom  to  him, 

To  him  Spring  plooms  afresh. 
Who  finds  a  livin'  spirit  in 

Der  Teufel  und  der  Flesh. 

174 


The  Adventurers 


And,  again: 


O  vot  ve  vant  to  quickest  come, 

Ish  dat  vot's  soonest  gone. 
Dis  Life  ish  boot  a  passin'  from 

De  efer-gomin-on. 
De  gloser  dat  ve  looks  at  id, 

De  shmaller  it  ish  grow; 
Who  goats  und  spurs  mit  lofe  und  wein 

He  makes  it  fastest  go. 


And  — 


"De  more  ve  trinks,  de  more  ve  sees, 

Dis  vorldt  a  derwisch  pe; 
Das  Werden's  all  von  whirling  droonk," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

And  finally  — 

Hans  Breitmann  vent  to  Kansas; 

Droo  all  dis  earthly  land 
A  vorkin'  out  life's  mission  here 

Soobyectifly  und  grand. 
Some  beoblesh  runs  de  beautiful. 

Some  vorks  philosophie; 
Der  Breitmann  solfe  de  infinide 

Ash  von  eternal  shpree ! 

Reading  this,  one  half  wonders  that  no  Breitmann  Clul, 
exists  for  the  exploitation  of  such  a  simple  creed.  Omar, 
who  said  much  the  same,  was  eternally  dragging  mysticism 
in.  The  Breitmann  made  no  such  mistake.  "Drink," 
cries  Omar,  "drink,  drink,"  in  untiring  iteration;  l)Ul 
there  is  no  evidence  that  he  ever  drank  him.self.  His 
counsel  is  the  end  of  it.     When  was  he  seen  "schwingcn 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

py  de  toes  a  trinken'  lager  beer"?     The  Breitmann  not 
only  talked,  he  did  things: 

Dey  vent  into  a  shpordin'  crib, 

De  rowdies  cloostered  thick, 
Dey  ashk  him  dell  dem  vot  o'glock, 

Und  dat  infernal  quick; 
Der  Breitmann  draw'd  his  'volver  cud, 

Ash  gool  as  gool  couldt  pe: 
"Id's  shoost  a-goin'  to  shdrike  six," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

That  was  the  Breitmann.     Of  Omar  are  no  such  stories 
told.     At  most  he  invented  an  almanack. 

But  the  Breitmann 's  greatest  deed  was  to  go  to  church. 
The  ballad  of  "Breitmann's  Going  to  Church"  is  Mr. 
Leland's  high-water  mark:  a  superb  exercise  in  grotesque 
art.  It  all  came  of  the  obstinacy  of  the  bold  von  Stossen- 
heim,  who  had  "theories  of  Gott."  Stossenheim  held 
that  no  man  could  win  paradise  but  by  self-mortification. 
He  took  Breitmann  on  "de  angles  of  de  moral  oxyyen," 
and  convinced  him  that  for  his  soul's  sake  he  should 
attend  service.  The  church  being  decided  upon,  one  of 
the  soldiers  —  for  it  was  in  war  time  —  offered  the  in- 
formation that  twenty  barrels  of  whiskey  were  hidden  under 
the  floor  of  it: 

Der  Stossenheim,  he  grossed  himself, 

Und  knelt  beside  de  fence, 
Und  gried:    "O  Coptain  Breitmann,  see 

Die  finger  Providence!" 
Der  Breitmann  droed  his  hat  afay, 

Says  he,  "Pe't  hit  or  miss, 
I'fe  heard  of  miragles  pefore, 

Boot  none  so  hunk  ash  dis." 
176 


The  Adventurers 

On  the  road  to  church  the  company  attacked  and 
slaughtered  —  massacred  rather  —  a  Rebel  l)and;  then 
they  passed  on  and  found  the  church.  While  some 
hunted  for  the  whiskey  ("Pe  referent,  men;  remember," 
said  Breitmann  to  the  searchers,  "dis  ish  a  Gotteshaus") 
another  played  the  organ ;  and  tears  rolled  down  the 
Breitmann's  face  as  he  thought  of  his  childhood: 

Und  louder  und  mit  louder  tone 

High  oop  de  orgcl  blowed, 
Und  plentifully  efer  yet 

Around  de  whiskey  goed. 
Dey  singed  ash  if  mit  singen  dey 

Might  indo  Himmcl  win : 
I  dink  in  all  dis  land  soosh  shprees 

Ash  yet  hafe  ncfcr  peen. 

Suddenly  came  news  of  an  advancing  host  of  Rebels. 
There  was  a  fierce  fight,  and  Breitmann's  party  won,  but 
not  until  Stossenheim  was  killed.     He  died  sighing: 

Wohl  auf,  my  soul  o'er  de  mountains! 

Wohl  auf  —  well  ofer  de  sea  ! 
Dere's  a  frau  dat  sits  in  de  Odenwald 

Und  shpins,  und  dinks  of  me. 
Dere's  a  shild  ash  blays  in  de  grecnin  grass, 

Und  sings  a  liddle  hymn, 
Und  learns  to  shjjcak  a  fader's  name 

Dat  she  nefer  will  sh]>eak  to  him. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Mr.  Lcland  did  not  tell  us  of  Breit- 
mann's death.  He  gave  some  faint  forecast  of  it  in  an 
account  of  Hans  in  sickness.  Falstaff,  ncaring  his  end, 
babbled  of  green  fields.  Breitmann,  flung  from  his 
"philosopede"  (for  Hans  was  among  the  early  cycli.sts), 
N  177 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

and  picked  up  stunned,  murmured  in  his  unconsciousness 
this  song: 

Ash  soomer  pring  de  roses, 

Und  roses  pring  de  dew. 
So  Deutschland  gifes  de  maidens 

Who  fetch  de  bier  for  you. 
Komm  Maidelein  !  rothe  Waengelein  ! 

Mit  wein-glass  in  your  paw! 
Ve'll  get  troonk  among  de  roses, 

Und  pe  soper  on  de  shtraw ! 

Ash  winter  pring  de  ice-wind, 

Vitch  plow  o'er  Burg  und  hill, 
Hard  times  pring  in  de  landlord, 

Und  de  landlord  pring  de  pill. 
Boot  sing  Maidelein  !  rothe  Waengelein ! 

Mit  wein-glass  in  your  paw! 
Ve'll  get  troonk  among  de  roses, 

Und  pe  soper  on  de  shtraw ! 

The  Breitmann's  death  must  have  been  magnificent. 


178 


XIV 

WILD   IRISHMEN 

Bryan  Maguire      <:>         -:;:n,         -;>^         -<;^         „;>^ 

'T'HE  deeds  of  Byran  Maguire  continued  till  a  still 
-■■  more  recent  period  "to  fright  the  islanders  from  their 
propriety."  He  was  a  large  burly  man,  with  a  bull-neck 
and  clumsy  shoulders.  His  face,  though  not  uncomely, 
was  disfigured  by  enormous  whiskers,  and  he  assumed  on 
all  occasions  a  truculent  and  menacing  aspect.  He  had 
been  in  the  army  serving  abroad,  and,  it  was  said,  dis- 
missed the  service.  He  availed  himself  of  his  military 
character,  and  appeared  occasionally  in  the  streets  in  a 
gaudy  glittering  uniform,  armed  with  his  sword,  saying 
it  was  the  uniform  of  his  Corps.  When  thus  accoutred, 
he  strolled  through  the  streets,  looking  round  on  all  that 
passed  with  a  haughty  contempt. 

His  ancestors  were  among  the  reguli  of  Ireland,  and 
one  of  them  was  a  distinguished  Irish  leader  in  1641. 
He  therefore  assumed  the  port  and  bearing  which  he 
thought  became  the  son  of  an  Irish  king.  The  streets 
were  formerly  more  covered  with  dirt  than  they  are  now, 
and  the  only  mode  of  passing  from  one  side  to  the  other 
was  by  a  narrow  crossing    made  by  mud  heaped  up  on 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

each  side.  It  was  Bryan's  glory  to  take  sole  possession 
of  one  of  these,  and  to  be  seen  with  his  arms  folded  across 
his  ample  chest,  stalking  along  in  solitary  magnificence. 
Any  unfortunate  wayfarer  who  met  him  on  the  path  was 
sure  to  be  hurled  into  the  heap  of  mud  at  one  side  of  it. 
The  sight  was  generally  attractive,  and  a  crowd  usually 
collected  at  each  end  of  the  path  to  gaze  on  him  or  pru- 
dently wait  until  he  had  passed. 

His  domestic  habits  were  in  keeping  with  his  manner 
abroad.  When  he  required  the  attendance  of  a  servant 
he  had  a  peculiar  manner  of  ringing  the  bell.  His  pistols 
always  lay  on  the  table  beside  him,  and  instead  of  applying 
his  hand  to  the  bell-pull  in  the  usual  way,  he  took  up  a 
pistol  and  fired  it  at  the  handle  of  the  bell,  and  continued 
firing  until  he  hit  it  and  so  caused  the  bell  below  to  sound. 
He  was  such  an  accurate  shot  with  a  pistol,  that  his  wife 
was  in  the  habit  of  holding  a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand 
for  him,  as  a  specimen  of  his  skill,  to  snuff  with  a  pistol 
bullet  at  so  many  paces'  distance. 

Another  of  his  royal  habits  was  the  mode  of  passing 
his  time.  He  was  seen  for  whole  days  leaning  out  of  his 
window,  and  amusing  himself  with  annoying  the  passen- 
gers. When  one  went  by  whom  he  thought  a  fit  subject, 
he  threw  down  on  him  some  rubbish  or  dirt  to  attract  his 
notice,  and  when  the  man  looked  up  he  spat  in  his  face. 
If  he  made  any  expostulation,  Bryan  crossed  his  arms  and 
presenting  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  invited  him  up  to  his 
room,  declaring  he  would  give  him  satisfaction  there,  and 
his  choice  of  the  pistols. 

Sketches  of  Irish  Life  Sixty  Years  Ago 


i8o 


Wild  Irishmen 

Mr.  Barrington         ^o        -ci^        •^o        "Cy        -^i^ 

T  TE  said  no  more  but  departed  instantly,  and  I  did 
■■-  ^  not  think  again  upon  the  subject.  An  hour  after, 
however,  my  brother  sent  in  a  second  request  to  see  me. 
I  found  him,  to  all  appearance,  quite  cool  and  tranquil. 
"I  have  done  it,  by  G^d!"  (cried  he,  exultingly;)  "'twas 
better  late  than  never!"  and  with  that  he  produced  from 
his  coat-pocket  a  long  queue  and  a  handful  of  powdered 
hair  and  curls.  "See  here!"  continued  he,  "the  cowardly 
rascal  I" 

"Heavens!"  cried  I,  "French,  are  you  mad?" 

"Mad!"  replied  he,  "no,  no!  I  followed  your  own 
advice  exactly.  I  went  directly  after  I  left  you  to  the 
grand  jury-room  to  'challenge  the  array'  and  there  I 
challenged  the  head  of  the  array,  that  cowardly  Lyons! 
—  he  peremptorily  refused  to  fight  me;  so  I  knocked 
him  down  before  the  grand  jury,  and  cut  off  his  curls 
and  tail  —  see,  here  they  are,  —  the  rascal !  and  my  brother 
Jack  is  gone  to  flog  the  Sub-Sheriff." 

I  was  thunderstruck,  and  almost  thought  my  brother 
was  crazy,  since  he  was  obviously  not  in  liquor  at  all.  But 
after  some  inquin,',  I  found  that,  like  many  other  country 
gentlemen,  he  took  words  in  their  commonest  acceptation. 

He  had  seen  the  High  Sheriff  coming  in  with  a  great 
"array"  and  had  thus  conceived  my  suggestion  as  to 
challenging  the  array  was  literal;  and  accordingly,  re- 
pairing to  the  grand  jury  dining-room,  had  called  the 
High  Sheriff  aside,  told  him  he  had  omitted  challenging 
him  before  the  trial,  as  he  ought  to  have  done  accord- 
ing to  advice  of  counsel,  but  that  it  was  better  late  than 
never,  and  that  he  must  immediately  come  out  and  fight 
him. 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Mr.  Lyons  conceiving  my  brother  to  be  intoxicated, 
drew  back,  and  refused  the  invitation  in  a  most  peremp- 
tory manner.  French  then  collared  him,  tripped  up  his 
heels,  and  putting  his  foot  on  his  breast,  cut  off  his  side- 
curls  and  queue  with  a  carving-knife  which  an  old  waiter 
named  Spedding  (who  had  been  my  father's  butler,  and 
liked  the  thing,)  had  readily  brought  him  from  the  dinner- 
table.  Having  secured  his  spoils,  my  brother  immediately 
came  off  in  triumph  to  relate  to  me  his  achievement. 

Mr.  Lyons  was  a  remarkably  fine,  handsome  man; 
and,  having  lived  very  much  abroad,  was  by  no  means 
acquainted  with  the  humours  of  Irish  country  gentlemen, 
with  whom  he  had  associated  but  little,  and  by  whom  he 
was  not  at  all  liked ;  and  this  his  first  reception  must  have 
rather  surprised  him. 

Mr.  Flood,  one  of  the  grand  jury,  afterwards  informed 
me,  that  no  human  gravity  could  possibly  withstand  the 
astonishment  and  ludicrous  figure  of  the  mutilated  High 
Sheriff;  the  laugh,  consequently,  was  both  loud  and  long. 
Nobody  chose  to  interfere  in  the  concern;  and  as  Mr. 
Lyons  had  sustained  no  bodily  injury,  he  received  very 
little  condolement  amongst  the  country  gentlemen. 

Jonas  Barrington 

Pat  Power     -■ci'        -"O        -oy        -<;i>'        -^o        -«^ 

T)AT  POWER  of  Daragle  was  a  fat  robust  man,  much 
-*-  distinguished  for  his  intemperance,  and  generally 
seen  with  a  glowing  red  face.  He  on  one  occasion  fought 
with  a  fire-eating  companion  called  Bob  Briscoe;  when 
taking  aim  he  said  he  still  had  a  friendship  for  him,  and 
would  show  it,  so  he  only  shot  off  his  whisker  and  the  top 
of  his  ear.  His  pistol  was  always  at  the  service  of  another 
182 


Wild  Irishmen 

who  had  less  inclination  to  use  his  own;  and  when  a 
friend  of  his  declined  a  challenge,  Power  immediately 
took  it  for  him.  When  the  Duke  of  Richmond  was  in  the 
South  of  Ireland  he  knighted  many  persons,  without  much 
regard  to  their  merit  or  claims.  In  Waterford  he  was 
particularly  profuse  of  his  honours  in  this  way.  Among 
his  knights  were  the  recorder,  the  paymaster  of  a  regiment, 
and  a  lieutenant.  Power  was  in  a  Coffee-house  conversing 
with  a  gentleman  he  accidently  met,  and  the  topic  of 
conversation  was  the  new  knights.     He  abused  them  all, 

particularly  "a  fellow  called  B ,  a  beggarly  half-pay 

lieutenant." 

The  gentleman  turned  pale  and  in  confusion  immediately 
left  the  Coffee-room.  "Do  you  know  who  that  is?" 
said  a  person   present.     "No,"   said   Power;    "I  never 

saw  him  before."     "That's  Sir  J.  B whom  you  have 

been  abusing."  "In  that  case,"  said  Power,  with  great 
unconcern,  "I  must  look  after  my  will."  So  he  im- 
mediately proceeded  to  the  office  of  T.  Cooke,  an  eminent 
Attorney,  sat  down  upon  a  desk  stool,  and  told  him  in- 
stantly to  draw  his  will,  as  he  had  no  time  to  lose.  The 
will  was  drawn  and  executed,  and  then  he  was  asked  what 
was  the  cause  of  his  hurry.  He  explained  the  circumstance, 
and  said  he  expected  to  find  a  message  at  his  house  before 
him. 

"Never  fear,"  said  Cooke,  "the  knight  is  an  English- 
man, and  has  too  much  sense  to  take  notice  of  what  you 
have  said."     Cooke  prophesied  truly.' 

When  travelling  in  England,  Power  had  many  en- 
counters with  persons  who  were  attracted  by  his  brogue 

'  A  similar  anecdote  is  told  of  a  Mr.  Bligh.  It  is  probable  that 
both  he  and  Power,  havinR  acquired  celebrity  in  the  same  line, 
may  have  been  the  heroes  of  similar  achievements. 

183 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

and  clumsy  appearance.  On  one  occasion  a  group  of 
gentlemen  were  silting  in  a  box  at  one  end  of  the  room 
when  he  entered  at  the  other.  The  representative  of 
Irish  manners  at  this  time  on  the  English  stage,  was  a 
tissue  of  ignorance,  blunders,  and  absurdities;  and  when 
a  real  Irishman  appeared  off  the  stage,  he  was  always 
supposed  to  have  the  characteristics  of  his  class  and  so 
to  be  a  fair  butt  for  ridicule.  When  Power  took  his  seat 
in  the  box,  the  waiter  came  to  him  with  a  gold  watch,  with 
a  gentleman's  compliments  and  a  request  to  know  what 
o'clock  it  was  by  it.  Power  took  the  watch,  and  then 
directed  the  waiter  to  let  him  know  the  person  that  sent 
it ;  he  pointed  out  one  of  the  group.  Power  rang  the  bell 
for  his  servant,  and  directed  him  to  bring  his  pistols 
and  follow  him.  He  put  them  under  his  arms  and,  with 
the  watch  in  his  hand,  walked  up  to  the  box  and  present- 
ing the  watch,  begged  to  know  to  whom  it  belonged. 
When  no  one  was  willing  to  own  it,  he  drew  his  own  old  sil- 
ver one  from  his  fob,  and  presented  it  to  his  servant,  desir- 
ing him  to  keep  it;  and  putting  up  the  gold  one,  he  gave 
his  name  and  address,  and  assured  the  company  he  would 
keep  it  safe  till  called  for.     It  never  was  claimed. 

On  another  occasion  he  ordered  supper,  and  while 
waiting  for  it  he  read  the  newspaper.  After  some  time 
the  waiter  laid  two  covered  dishes  on  the  table,  and  when 
Power  examined  their  contents  he  found  they  were  two 
dishes  of  smoking  potatoes.  He  asked  the  waiter  to  whom 
he  was  indebted  for  such  good  fare,  and  he  pointed  to 
two  gentlemen  in  the  opposite  box.  Power  desired  his 
servant  to  attend  him,  and  directing  him  in  Irish  what  to 
do,  quietly  made  his  supper  off  the  potatoes,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  the  Englishmen. 

Presently  his  servant  appeared  with  two  more  covered 
184 


Wild  Irishmen 

dishes,  one  of  which  he  laid  down  before  his  master,  and 
the  other  before  the  persons  in  the  opposite  box.  When 
the  covers  were  removed,  there  was  found  in  each  a  loaded 
pistol. 

Power  took  up  his  and  cocked  it,  telling  one  of  the 
others  to  take  up  the  second,  assuring  him  "they  were 
at  a  very  proper  distance  for  a  close  shot  and  if  one  fell 
he  was  ready  to  give  satisfaction  to  the  other." 

The  parties  immediately  rushed  out  without  waiting 
for  a  second  invitation,  and  with  them  several  persons 
in  the  adjoining  box.  As  they  were  all  in  too  great  a  hurry 
to  pay  their  reckoning  Power  paid  it  for  them  along  with 
his  own. 

Sketches  of  Irish  Life  Sixty  Years  Ago 


185 


XV 
THE   MASTERS 

Julius  Caesar  ^^y        ^^y        ^o        '^cy        '^^        'Qy 

A  S  a  warrior  and  a  general,  we  behold  him  not  in  the 
■^*-  least  inferior  to  the  greatest  and  most  admired  com- 
manders the  world  ever  produced.  For  whether  we  com- 
pare him  with  the  Fabii,  the  Scipios,  and  Metelli,  with 
the  generals  of  his  own  time,  or  those  who  flourished  a 
httle  before  him,  with  Sylla,  Marius,  the  two  Luculli, 
or  with  Pompey  himself,  whose  fame  in  every  military 
excellence  reached  the  skies,  Caesar's  achievements  bear 
away  the  palm.  One  he  surpassed  in  the  difficulty  of 
the  scene  of  action,  another  in  the  extent  of  the  countries 
he  subdued;  this,  in  the  number  and  strength  of  the 
enemies  he  overcame,  that,  in  the  savage  manners  and 
treacherous  disposition  of  the  people  he  humanized;  one 
in  mildness  and  clemency  to  his  prisoners,  another,  in 
bounty  and  munificence  to  his  troops;  and  all,  in  the 
number  of  battles  that  he  won,  and  enemies  that  he  killed. 
For  in  less  than  ten  years'  war  in  Gaul,  he  took  800  cities 
by  assault,  conquered  300  nations,  and  fought  pitched 
battles  at  different  times  with  3,000,000  of  men,  1,000,000 
of  which  he  cut  in  pieces,  and  made  another  1,000,000 
prisoners. 


The  Masters 

Such,  moreover,  was  the  afifection  of  his  soldiers,  and 
their  attachment  to  his  person,  that  they  who  under  other 
commanders  were  nothing  above  the  common  rate  of 
men,  became  invincible  where  Caesar's  glory  was  con- 
cerned, and  met  the  most  dreadful  dangers  with  a  courage 
that  nothing  could  resist.    To  give  three  or  four  instances: 

Acilius,  in  a  sea-fight  near  Marseilles,  after  he  had 
boarded  one  of  the  enemy's  ships,  had  his  right  hand 
cut  off  with  a  sword,  yet  he  still  held  his  buckler  in  his 
left,  and  pushed  it  in  the  enemy's  faces,  till  he  defeated 
them,  and  took  the  vessel. 

Cassius  Scaeva,  in  the  battle  of  Dyrrhachium,  after  he 
had  an  eye  shot  out  with  an  arrow,  his  shoulder  wounded 
with  one  javelin,  his  thigh  run  through  with  another, 
and  had  received  130  darts  upon  his  shield,  called  out 
to  the  enemy,  as  if  he  would  surrender  himself.  Upon 
this,  two  of  them  came  up  to  him,  and  he  gave  one  of 
them  such  a  stroke  upon  the  shoulder  with  his  sword,  that 
the  arm  dropped  off;  the  other  he  wounded  in  the  face, 
and  made  him  retire.  His  comrades  then  came  up  to  his 
assistance,  and  he  saved  his  life. 

In  Britain,  some  of  the  vanguard  happened  to  be  en- 
tangled in  a  deep  morass,  and  were  there  attacked  by  the 
enemy,  when  a  private  soldier,  in  the  sight  of  Caesar, 
threw  himself  into  the  midst  of  the  assailants,  and,  after 
prodigious  exertions  of  valour,  beat  off  the  barbarians, 
and  rescued  the  men.  After  which,  the  soldier,  with 
much  difficulty,  partly  by  swimming,  partly  by  wading, 
passed  the  morass,  but  in  the  passage  lost  his  shield. 
Ca;sar,  and  those  aljout  him,  astonished  at  the  action,  ran 
to  meet  him  with  acclamations  of  joy;  but  the  soldier, 
in  great  distress,  threw  him.sclf  at  Caesar's  feet,  and,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  begged  pardon  for  the  loss  of  his  shield. 
187 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

In  Africa,  Scipio  having  taken  one  of  Caesar's  ships, 
on  board  of  which  was  Granius  Petronius,  lately  ap- 
pointed quaestor,  put  the  rest  to  the  sword,  but  told  the 
quasstor  he  gave  him  his  life,  Petronius  answered,  "  It 
is  not  the  custom  of  Caesar's  soldiers  to  take,  but  to  give 
quarter,"  and  immediately  plunged  his  sword  in  his  breast. 

This  courage,  and  this  great  ambition,  were  cultivated 
and  cherished,  in  the  first  place,  by  the  generous  manner 
in  which  Caesar  rev/arded  his  troops,  and  the  honours 
which  he  paid  them:  for  his  whole  conduct  showed,  that 
he  did  not  accumulate  riches  in  the  course  of  his  wars, 
to  minister  to  luxury,  or  to  serve  any  pleasures  of  his  own ; 
but  that  he  laid  them  up  in  a  common  bank,  as  prizes  to 
be  obtained  by  distinguished  valour,  and  that  he  considered 
himself  no  farther  rich  than  as  he  was  in  a  condition  to  do 
justice  to  the  merit  of  his  soldiers.  Another  thing  that 
contributed  to  make  them  invincible  was  their  seeing 
Caesar  always  take  his  share  in  danger,  and  never  desire 
any  exemption  from  labour  and  fatigue. 

As  for  his  exposing  his  person  to  danger,  they  were 
not  surprised  at  it,  because  they  knew  his  passion  for 
glory,  but  they  were  astonished  at  his  patience  under 
toil,  so  far  in  all  appearance  above  his  bodily  powers. 
For  he  was  of  a  slender  make,  fair,  of  a  delicate  con- 
stitution, and  subject  to  violent  headaches  and  epileptic 
fits.  He  had  the  first  attack  of  the  falling  sickness  at 
Corduba.  He  did  not,  however,  make  these  disorders 
a  pretence  for  indulging  himself.  On  the  contrary,  he 
sought  in  war  a  remedy  for  his  infirmities,  endeavouring 
to  strengthen  his  constitution  by  long  marches,  by  simple 
diet,  by  seldom  coming  under  covert.  Thus  he  contended 
with  his  distemper,  and  fortified  himself  against  its  attacks. 

When  he  slept,  it  was  commonly  upon  a  march,  either 
i88 


The  Masters 

in  a  chariot  or  a  litter,  that  rest  might  be  no  hindrance 
to  business.  In  the  day  time  he  visited  the  castles,  cities, 
and  fortified  camps,  with  a  servant  at  his  side,  whom  he 
employed,  on  such  occasions,  to  write  for  him,  and  with 
a  soldier  behind,  who  carried  his  sword.  By  these  means 
he  travelled  so  fast,  and  with  so  little  interruption,  as  to 
reach  the  Rhone  in  eight  days  after  his  first  setting  out  for 
those  parts  from  Rome. 

He  was  a  good  horseman  in  his  early  years,  and  brought 
that  e.xercise  to  such  perfection  by  practice,  that  he  could 
sit  a  horse  at  full  speed  with  his  hands  behind  him.  In 
this  expedition  he  also  accustomed  himself  to  dictate  letters 
as  he  rode  on  horseback,  and  found  sufficient  employment 
for  two  secretaries  at  once,  or,  according  to  Oppius,  for 
more.  It  is  also  said,  that  Cajsar  was  the  first  who  con- 
trived to  communicate  his  thoughts  by  letter  to  his  friends, 
who  were  in  the  same  city  with  him,  when  any  urgent 
affair  required  it,  and  the  multitude  of  business  or  great 
extent  of  the  city  did  not  admit  of  an  interview. 

Of  his  indifference  with  respect  to  diet  they  give  us 
this  remarkable  proof.  Happening  to  sup  with  Valerius 
Leo,  a  friend  of  his  at  Milan,  there  was  sweet  ointment 
poured  upon  the  asparagus,  instead  of  oil.  Caesar  ate  of 
it  freely,  notwithstanding,  and  afterwards  rebuked  his 
friends  for  expressing  their  dislike  of  it.  "  It  was  enough," 
said  he,  "to  forbear  eating,  if  it  was  disagreeable  to  you. 
He  who  finds  fault  with  any  rusticity,  is  himself  a  rustic." 

One  day,  as  he  was  upon  an  excursion,  a  violent  storm 
forced  him  to  seek  shelter  in  a  poor  man's  hut,  where 
there  was  only  one  room,  and  that  scarce  big  enough  for 
a  man  to  sleep  in.  Turning,  therefore,  to  his  friends, 
he  said,  "Honours  for  the  great,  and  necessaries  for  the 
infirm,"  and  immediately  gave  up  the  room  lo  Oppius, 
i8q 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

while  himself  and  the  rest  of  the  company  slept  under  a 
shed  at  the  door. 

Plutarch,  in  Langhorne's  Translation 

The  Emperor  -cy       ^:::>       -^>       <:><:>       ^::i^ 

WHEN  I  think  of  the  Great  Emperor,  all  in  my  mem- 
ory again  becomes  summer-green  and  golden.  A 
long  avenue  of  lindens  rises  blooming  around,  on  the 
leafy  twigs  sit  singing  nightingales,  the  waterfall  rustles, 
flowers  are  growing  from  full  round  beds,  dreamily  nodding 
their  fair  heads:  I  stood  amidst  them  once  in  wondrous 
intimacy,  the  rouged  tulips,  proud  as  beggars,  condescend- 
ingly greeted  me,  the  nervous  sick  lilies  nodded  with  woeful 
tenderness,  the  tipsy  red  roses  nodded  at  me  at  first  sight 
from  a  distance,  the  night -violets  sighed;  with  the  myrtle 
and  laurel  I  was  not  then  acquainted,  for  they  did  not 
entice  with  a  shining  bloom,  but  the  mignonnette,  with  whom 
I  am  now  on  such  bad  terms,  was  my  very  particular 
friend.  I  am  speaking  of  the  Court  garden  of  Dussel- 
dorf,  where  I  often  lay  upon  the  bank,  and  piously  listened 
there  when  Monsieur  Le  Grand  told  of  the  warlike  feats 
of  the  great  Emperor,  beating  meanwhile  the  marches 
which  were  drummed  during  the  deeds,  so  that  I  saw 
and  heard  all  to  the  life.  I  saw  the  passage  over  the 
Simplon  —  the  Emperor  in  advance  and  his  brave  grena- 
diers climbing  on  behind  him,  while  the  scream  of  frightened 
birds  of  prey  sounded  around,  and  the  glaciers  thundered 
in  the  distance  —  I  saw  the  Emperor  with  flag  in  hand 
on  the  bridge  of  Lodi  —  I  saw  the  Emperor  in  his  grey 
cloak  at  Marengo  —  I  saw  the  Emperor  mounted  in  the 
battle  of  the  Pyramids,  naught  around  save  powder,  smoke, 
and  the  Mamelukes  —  I  saw  the  Emperor  in  the  battle 
190 


The   Masters 

of  Austerlitz  —  ha !  how  the  bullets  whistled  over  the 
smooth,  icy  road!  —  I  saw,  I  heard  the  battle  of  Jena 
—  dum,  dum,  dum  —  I  saw,  I  heard  the  battles  of  Eylau, 
of  Wagram  —  no,  I  could  hardly  stand  it !  Monsieur 
Le  Grand  drummed  so  that  I  nearly  burst  my  own  sheep- 
skin. 

But  what  were  my  feelings  when  I  first  saw  with  highly 
blest  and  with  my  own  eyes  him,  Hosannah !  the  Emperor ! 
It  was  exactly  in  the  Avenue  of  the  Court  garden  at 
Dusseldorf.  As  I  pressed  through  the  gaping  crowd, 
thinking  of  the  doughty  deeds  and  battles  which  Monsieur 
Le  Grand  had  drummed  to  me,  my  heai-t  beat  the  "general 
march"  —  yet  at  the  same  time  I  thought  of  the  police 
regulation  that  no  one  should  dare,  under  penalty  of  five 
dollars'  fine,  ride  through  the  Avenue.  And  the  Emperor 
with  his  cortege  rode  directly  down  the  Avenue.  The  trem- 
bling trees  bowed  towards  him  as  he  advanced,  the  sun-rays 
quivered,  frightened,  yet  curiously  through  the  green  leaves, 
and  in  the  blue  heaven  above  there  swam  visibly  a  golden 
star.  The  Emperor  wore  his  invisible-green  uniform  and 
the  little  world-renowned  hat.  He  rode  a  white  palfrey, 
which  stepped  with  such  calm  pride,  so  confidently,  so 
nobly  —  had  I  then  been  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  I  would 
have  envied  that  horse.  The  Emperor  sat  carelessly,  almost 
lazily,  holding  with  one  hand  his  rein,  and  with  the  other 
good-naturedly  patting  the  neck  of  the  horse.  It  was  a 
sunny  marble  hand,  a  mighty  hand  —  one  of  the  pair  which 
bound  fast  the  many-headed  monster  of  anarchy,  and 
reduced  to  order  the  war  of  races  —  and  it  good-naturedly 
patted  the  neck  of  the  horse.  Even  the  face  had  that 
hue  which  we  find  in  the  marble  Greek  and  Roman  busts, 
the  traits  were  as  nobly  proportioned  as  in  the  antiques, 
and  on  that  countenance  was  plainly  writUn,  "Thou 
191 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

shalt  have  no  gods  before  me!"  A  smile,  which  warmed 
and  tranquilHzed  every  heart,  flitted  over  the  lips  —  and  yet 
all  knew  that  those  lips  needed  but  to  whistle,  et  la  Prusse 
n'existait  plus  —  those  lips  needed  but  to  whistle,  and  the 
entire  clergy  would  have  stopped  their  ringing  and  singing 
—  those  lips  needed  but  to  whistle,  and  the  entire  Holy 
Roman  realm  would  have  danced.  It  was  an  eye  clear 
as  heaven ;  it  could  read  the  hearts  of  men ;  it  saw  at  a 
glance  all  things  at  once,  and  as  they  were  in  this  world, 
while  we  ordinary  mortals  see  them  only  one  by  one  and 
by  their  shaded   hues. 

The  brow  was  not  so  clear,  the  phantoms  of  future 
battles  were  nestling  there,  and  there  was  a  quiver  which 
swept  over  the  brow,  and  those  were  the  creative  thoughts, 
the  great  seven-mile-boots  thoughts  wherewith  the  spirit 
of  the  Emperor  strode  invisibly  over  the  world;  and  I 
believe  that  every  one  of  those  thoughts  would  have  given 
to  a  German  author  full  material  wherewith  to  write  all 
the  days  of  his  life. 

The  Emperor  rode  calmly  straight  through  the  Avenue ; 
no  policeman  stopped  him ;  behind  his  cortege  rode  proudly, 
loaded  with  gold  and  ornaments,  on  panting  horses;  the 
trumpets  pealed;  near  me  crazy  Aloysius  spun  round 
and  snarled  the  names  of  his  generals ;  not  far  off  growled 
the  tipsy  Gumpert,  and  the  multitude  cried  with  a  thou- 
sand voices,  "Es  lebe  der  Kaiser!"  —  Long  live  the 
Emperor! 

Heinrich  Heine  (translated  by  C.  G.  Leland) 


192 


The   Masters 
Shaun  ^;i,.        ^o        ^cy        ^^^^       ^v>        -"Cy        <3' 

[Scene:  —  Before  Dublin  Castle.  — Night  —  a  Clansman  of  Shaun 
O'Neill  discovers  his  Chief's  head  on  a  pole.] 

GOD'S  wrath  upon  the  Saxon !  may  they  never  know 
the  pride 
Of  dying  on  the  battle-field,  their  broken  spear  beside, 
When  victory  gilds  the  gory  shroud  of  every  fallen  brave, 
Or  death  no  tales  of  conquered  clans  can  whisper  to  his 

grave. 
May  every  light  from  Cross  of  Christ,  that  saves  the  heart 

of  man. 
Be   hid  in   clouds   of  blood  before  it  reach    the   Saxon 

clan; 
For  sure,  O  God  I  —  and  you  know  all,  whose  thought  for 

all  sufficed  — 
To  expiate  these  Saxon  sins  they'd  want  another  Christ. 

Is  it  thus,  O  Shaun  the  haughty !    Shaun  the  valiant !  that 

we  meet  — 
Have  my  eyes  been  lit  by  Heaven  but  to  guide  me  to 

defeat  ? 
Have    /    no    chief,    or    you    no    clan,    to    give    us    both 

defence, 
Or  must  I,  too,  be  statucd  here  with  thy  cold  eloquence? 
Thy  ghastly  head  grins  scorn  upon  old  Dublin's  Castle- 
tower, 
Thy  shaggy   hair   is  wind-tossed,   and    thy   l)row   seems 

rough  with  power; 
Thy   wrathful    lips,    like   sentinels,    by   foulest    treachery 

stung, 
Look  rage  upon  the  world  of  wrong,  but  chain  ihy  licry 

tongue. 

o  193 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

That   tongue,   whose   Ulster   accent   woke   the   ghost   of 

Columbkill, 
Whose  warrior  words  fenced  round  with  spears  the  oaks 

of  Derry  Hill, 
Whose  reckless  tones  gave  life  and  death  to  vassals  and 

to  knaves, 
And  hunted  hordes  of  Saxons  into  holy  Irish  graves. 
The  Scotch  marauders  whitened  when  his  war-cry  met 

their  ears, 
And  the  death-bird,  like  a  vengeance,  poised  above  his 

stormy  cheers; 
Ay,   Shaun,  across  the  thundering  sea,  out-chanting  it, 

your  tongue 
Flung  wild   un -Saxon   war-whoopings  the   Saxon   Court 

among. 


Just  think,  O  Shaun !  the  same  moon  shines  on  Lififey  as 

on  Foyle, 
And  lights  the  ruthless  knaves  on  both,  our  kinsmen  to 

despoil ; 
And  you  the  hope,  voice,  battle-axe,  the  shield  of  us  and 

ours, 
A  murdered,  trunkless,  blinding  sight  above  these  Dublin 

towers. 
Thy   face   is   paler   than    the  moon;    my  heart  is  paler 

still  — 
My  heart  ?  I  had  no  heart  —  'twas  yours  —  'twas  yours ! 

to  keep  or  kill. 
And  you  kept  it  safe  for  Ireland,  Chief  —  your  life,  your 

soul,  your  pride; 
But  they  sought  it  in  thy  bosom,  Shaun  —  with  proud 

O'Neill  it  died. 

194 


The   Masters 

You   were   turbulent   and    haughty,  proud,  and  keen  as 

Spanish  steel  — 
But  who  had  right  of  these,  if  not  our  Ulsters  Chief, 

O'Neill, 
Who  reared  aloft  the  "Bloody  Hand"  until  it  paled  the 

stin, 
And  shed  such  glory  on  Tyrone  as  chief  had  never  done  ? 

He  was  "turbulent"  with  traitors;    he  was  "haughty" 

with  the  foe; 
He  was  "cruel,"  say  ye,  Saxons!     Ay!  he  dealt  ye  blow 

for  blow ! 
He  was  "rough"  and  "wild"  —  and  who's  not  wild  to  see 

his  hearth-stone  razed? 
He  was  "merciless  as  fire"  —  ah,  ye  kindled  him  —  he 

blazed ! 
He  was  "proud"  —  yes,  proud  of  birthright,  and  because 

he  flung  away 
Your  Saxon  stars  of  princedom,  as  the  rock  does  mocking 

spray, 
He  was  wild,  insane  for  vengeance  —  ay !  and  preached  it 

till  Tyrone 
Was  ruddy,  ready,  wild,  too,  with  "Red  hands"  to  clutch 

their  own. 

"The  Scots  are  on  the  border,  Shaun!"     Ye  Saints,  he 

makes  no  breath: 
I  remem!)er  when  that  cry  would  wake  him  up  almost 

from  death. 
Art  truly  dead  and  cold?     O  Chief!   art  thou  to  Ulster 

lost  ? 
"Dost  hear,  dost  hear?     By  Randoljjh  led,  the  troops  the 

Foyle  have  crossed!" 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

He's  truly  dead !  he  must  be  dead !  nor  is  his  ghost  about  — 
And  yet  no  tomb  could  hold  his  spirit  tame  to  such  a 

shout : 
The  pale  face  droopeth  northward  —  ah !  his  soul  must 

loom  up  there, 
By  old  Armagh,  or  Antrim's  glynns,  Lough  Foyle,  or  Bann 

the  Fair! 
I'll  speed  me  Ulster-wards  —  your  ghost  must  wander 

there,  proud  Shane, 
In  search  of  some  O'Neill,  through  whom  to  throb  its 

hate  again. 

John  Savage 


196 


XVI 
MONK  AND   LOVER 

Fra  Filippo  Lippi     ^o        "Q>'        -^:i^        ^c^y        -Qy 

LpUGENIUS.     Filippo !     I   am    informed  by  my  son 

Cosimo  de'  Medici  of  many  things  relating  to  thy 

life  and  actions,  and,  among  the  rest,  of  thy  throwing  off 

the  habit  of  a  friar.     Speak  to  me  as  to  a  friend.     Was 

that  well  done? 

Filippo.    Holy  Father,  it  was  done  most  unadvisedly. 

Eugenius.  Continue  to  treat  me  with  the  same  confi- 
dence and  ingenuousness;  and,  beside  the  remuneration 
I  intend  to  bestow  on  thee  for  the  paintings  wherewith 
thou  hast  adorned  my  palace,  I  will  remove  with  my  own 
hand  the  heavy  accumulation  of  thy  sins,  and  ward  off 
the  peril  of  fresh  ones,  placing  within  thy  reach  every 
worldly  solace  and  contentment. 

Filippo.  Infinite  thanks,  Holy  Father,  from  the  inner- 
most heart  of  your  unworthy  servant,  whose  duty  and 
wishes  bind  him  alike  and  equally  to  a  strict  compliance 
with  your  paternal  commands. 

Eugenius.  Was  it  a  love  of  the  world  and  its  vanities 
that  induced  thee  to  throw  aside  the  frock? 

Filippo.  It  was  indeed.  Holy  I'ather !  I  never  had 
the  courage  to  mention  it  in  c(jnfession  among  my  maiiifuM 
offences. 

197 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Eugenius.  Bad,  bad !  Repentance  is  of  little  use  to 
the  sinner,  unless  he  pour  it  from  a  full  and  overflowing 
heart  into  the  capacious  ear  of  the  confessor.  Ye  must 
not  go  straightforward  and  bluntly  up  to  your  Maker, 
startling  him  with  the  horrors  of  your  guilty  conscience. 
Order,  decency,  time,  place,  opportunity,  must  be  observed. 

F Hippo.  I  have  observed  the  greater  part  of  them: 
time,  place,  and  opportunity. 

Eugenius.  That  is  much.  In  consideration  of  it,  I 
hereby  absolve  thee. 

Filippo.   I  feel  quite  easy,  quite  new-bom. 

Eugenius.  I  am  desirous  of  hearing  what  sort  of  feel- 
ings thou  experiencest  when  thou  givest  loose  to  thy  in- 
tractable and  unruly  wishes.  Now,  this  love  of  the  world, 
what  can  it  mean?  A  love  of  music,  of  dancing,  of  riding? 
What,  in  short,  is  it  in  thee? 

Filippo.  Holy  Father !  I  was  ever  of  a  hot  and  amorous 
constitution. 

Eugenius.  Well,  well!  I  can  guess,  within  a  trifle, 
what  that  leads  unto.  I  very  much  disapprove  of  it, 
whatever  it  may  be.  And  then?  and  then?  Prythee  go 
on :  I  am  inflamed  with  a  miraculous  zeal  to  cleanse  thee. 

Filippo.   I  have  committed  many  follies,  and  some  sins. 

Eugenius.  Let  me  hear  the  sins;  I  do  not  trouble  my 
head  about  the  follies;  the  Church  has  no  business  with 
them.  The  State  is  founded  on  follies,  the  Church  on 
sins.     Come,  then,  unsack  them. 

Filippo.  Concupiscence  is  both  a  folly  and  a  sin.  I 
felt  more  and  more  of  it  when  I  ceased  to  be  a  monk, 
not  having  (for  a  time)  so  ready  means  of  allaying  it. 

Eugenius.  No  doubt.  Thou  shouldst  have  thought 
again  and  again  before  thou  strippedst  off  the  cowl. 

Filippo.  Ah,  Holy  Father,  I  am  sore  at  heart.  I  thought 
198 


Monk  and   Lover 

indeed  how  often  it  had  held  two  heads  together  under  it, 
and  that  stripping  it  off  was  double  decapitation.  But 
compensation  and  contentment  came,  and  we  were  warm 
enough  without  it. 

Eugenius.  I  am  minded  to  reprove  thee  gravely.  No 
wonder  it  pleased  the  Virgin,  and  the  saints  about  her, 
to  permit  that  the  enemy  of  our  faith  should  lead  thee 
captive  into  Barbar}'. 

Filippo.   The  pleasure  was  all  on  their  side. 

Eugenius.  I  have  heard  a  great  many  stories  both  of 
males  and  females  who  were  taken  by  Tunisians  and 
Algerines;  and  although  there  is  a  sameness  in  certain 
parts  of  them,  my  especial  benevolence  toward  thee, 
worthy  Filippo,  would  induce  me  to  lend  a  vacant  ear  to 
thy  report.  And  now,  good  Filippo,  I  could  sip  a  small 
glass  of  muscatel  or  Orvieto,  and  turn  over  a  few  bleached 
almonds,  or  essay  a  smart  dried  apricot  at  inter\'als,  and 
listen  while  thou  relatest  to  me  the  manners  and  customs 
of  that  country,  and  particularly  as  touching  thine  own 
adversities.     First,  how  wast  thou  taken? 

Filippo.  I  was  visiting  at  Pesaro  my  worshipful  friend 
the  canonico  Andrea  Paccone,  who  delighted  in  the  guitar, 
played  it  skilfully,  and  was  always  fond  of  hearing  it  well 
accompanied  by  the  voice.  My  own  instrument  I  had 
brought  with  me,  together  with  many  gay  Florentine  songs, 
some  of  which  were  of  such  a  turn  and  tendency  that  the 
canonico  thought  they  would  sound  better  on  water,  and 
rather  far  from  shore,  than  within  the  walls  of  the  canoni- 
cate.  He  proposed,  then,  one  evening  when  there  was 
little  wind  stirring,  to  exercise  three  young  abbatcs '  on 
their  several  parts,  a  little  way  out  of  hearing  from  the 
water's  edge. 

'  Little  bo)-s  wearing  clcriral  habits  are  often  called  abbati. 

•99 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Eugenius.  I  disapprove  of  exercising  young  abbates  in 
that  manner. 

Filippo.  Inadvertently,  O  Holy  Father!  I  have  made 
the  affair  seem  worse  than  it  really  was.  In  fact,  there 
were  only  two  genuine  abbates;  the  third  was  Donna 
Lisetta,  the  good  canonico's  pretty  niece,  who  looks  so 
archly  at  your  Holiness  when  you  bend  your  knees  before 
her  at  bedtime. 

Eugenius.     How  ?     Where  ? 

Filippo.  She  is  the  angel  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
Holy  Family,  with  a  tip  of  amethyst-coloured  wing  over 
a  basket  of  figs  and  pomegranates.  I  painted  her  from 
memory,  she  was  then  only  fifteen,  and  worthy  to  be  the 
niece  of  an  archbishop.  Alas!  she  never  will  be:  she 
plays  and  sings  among  the  infidels,  and  perhaps  would 
eat  a  landrail  on  a  Friday  as  unreluctantly  as  she  would 
a  roach. 

Eugenius.  Poor  soul !  So  this  is  the  angel  with  the 
amethyst-coloured  wing?  I  thought  she  looked  wanton: 
we  must  pray  for  her  release  —  from  the  bondage  of  sin. 
What  followed  in  your  excursion? 

Filippo.  Singing,  playing,  fresh  air,  and  plashing 
water  stimulated  our  appetites.  We  had  brought  no 
eatable  Avith  us  but  fruit  and  thin  marzopane,  of  which  the 
sugar  and  rose-water  were  inadequate  to  ward  off  hunger; 
and  the  sight  of  a  fishing-vessel  between  us  and  Ancona 
raised  our  host's  immoderately.  "Yonder  smack,"  said 
he,  "is  sailing  at  this  moment  just  over  the  very  best  sole 
bank  in  the  Adriatic.  If  she  continues  her  course  and 
we  run  toward  her,  we  may  be  supplied,  I  trust  in  God, 
with  the  finest  fish  in  Christendom.  Methinks  I  see 
already  the  bellies  of  those  magnificent  soles  bestar  the 
deck,  and  emulate  the  glories  of  the  orient  sky."  He 
200 


Monk  and   Lover 

gave  his  orders  with  such  a  majestic  air,  that  he  looked 
rather  Hke  an  admiral  than  a  priest. 

Eugenius.  How  now,  rogue!  Why  should  not  the 
churchman  look  majestically  and  courageously!  I  my- 
self have  found  occasion  for  it,  and  exerted  it. 

Filippo.  The  world  knows  the  prowess  of  your  Holi- 
ness. 

Eugenius.  Not  mine,  not  mine,  Filippo !  but  his  who 
gave  me  the  sword  and  the  keys,  and  the  will  and  the 
discretion  to  use  them.  I  trust  the  canonico  did  not 
misapply  his  station  and  power,  by  taking  the  fish  at  any 
unreasonably  low  price;  and  that  he  gave  his  blessing  to 
the  remainder,  and  to  the  poor  fishermen  and  to  their 
nets. 

Filippo.  He  was  angry  at  observing  that  the  vessel, 
while  he  thought  it  was  within  hail,  stood  out  again  to 
sea. 

Eugenius.  He  ought  to  have  borne  more  manfully  so 
slight  a  vexation. 

Filippo.  On  the  contrary,  he  swore  bitterly  he  would 
have  the  master's  ear  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger 
in  another  half-hour,  and  regretted  that  he  had  cut  his 
nails  in  the  morning  lest  they  should  grate  on  his  guitar. 
"They  may  fish  well,"  cried  he,  "but  they  can  neither  sail 
nor  row;  and,  when  I  am  in  the  middle  of  that  tub  of 
theirs,  I  will  teach  them  more  than  they  look  for."  Sure 
enough  he  was  in  the  middle  of  it  at  the  time  he  fixed; 
but  it  was  by  the  aifl  of  a  rope  about  his  arms,  and  the  end 
of  another  laid  lustily  on  his  back  and  shoulders.  "  Mount, 
lazy,  long-chined  turnspit,  as  thou  valuest  thy  life,"  cried 
Abdul,  the  corsair,  "and  away  for  Tunis."  If  silence  is 
consent,  he  had  it.  The  captain,  in  the  Sicilian  dialect, 
told  us  we  might  talk  freely,  fur  he  had  taken  his  siesta. 

20I 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

"Whose  guitars  are  those?"  said  he.  As  the  canonico 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and  answered  nothing,  I  replied, 
"Sir,  one  is  mine;  the  other  is  my  worthy  friend's  there." 
Next  he  asked  the  canonico  to  what  market  he  was  taking 
those  young  slaves,  pointing  to  the  abbates.  The  canonico 
sobbed,  and  could  not  utter  one  word.  I  related  the  whole 
story;  at  which  he  laughed.  He  then  took  up  the  music, 
and  commanded  my  reverend  guest  to  sing  an  air  peculiarly 
tender,  invoking  the  compassion  of  a  nymph,  and  calling 
her  cold  as  ice.  Never  did  so  many  or  such  profound 
sighs  accompany  it.  When  it  ended,  he  sang  one  himself 
in  his  own  language,  on  a  lady  whose  eyes  were  exactly 
like  the  scimitars  of  Damascus,  and  whose  eyebrows  met  in 
the  middle  like  the  cudgels  of  prize-fighters.  On  the  whole, 
she  resembled  both  sun  and  moon,  with  the  simple  differ- 
ence that  she  never  allowed  herself  to  be  seen,  lest  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth  should  go  to  war  for  her,  and  not  a  man 
be  left  to  breathe  out  his  soul  before  her.  This  poem  had 
obtained  the  prize  at  the  University  of  Fez,  had  been  trans- 
lated into  the  Arabic,  the  Persian,  and  the  Turkish  lan- 
guages, and  was  the  favourite  lay  of  the  corsair.  He 
invited  me,  lastly,  to  try  my  talent.  I  played  the  same  air  on 
the  guitar,  and  apologized  for  omitting  the  words,  from  my 
utter  ignorance  of  the  Moorish.  Abdul  was  much  pleased, 
and  took  the  trouble  to  convince  me  that  the  poetry  they 
conveyed,  which  he  translated  literally,  was  incomparably 
better  than  ours.  "Cold  as  ice!"  he  repeated,  scoffing: 
anybody  might  say  that  who  has  seen  Atlas ;  but  a  genuine 
poet  would  rather  say  "Cold  as  a  lizard  or  a  lobster." 
There  is  no  controverting  a  critic  who  has  twenty  stout 
rowers  and  twenty  well-knotted  rope-ends.  Added  to 
which,  he  seemed  to  know  as  much  of  the  matter  as  the 
generality  of  those  who  talk  about  it.     He  was  gratified 


Monk  and  Lover 

by  my  attention  and  edification,  and  thus  continued: 
"I  have  remarked  in  the  songs  I  have  heard,  that  these 
wild  woodland  creatures  of  the  West,  these  nymphs, 
are  a  strange  fantastical  race.  But  are  your  poets  not 
ashamed  to  complain  of  their  inconstancy?  Whose 
fault  is  that  ?  If  ever  it  should  be  my  fortune  to 
take  one,  I  would  try  whether  I  could  not  bring  her 
down  to  the  level  of  her  sex;  and,  if  her  inconstancy 
caused  any  complaints,  by  Allah!  they  should  be  louder 
and  shriller  than  ever  rose  from  the  throat  of  Abdul." 
I  still  thought  it  better  to  be  a  disciple  than  a  commen- 
tator. 

Eugenius.  If  we  could  convert  this  barbarian  and  detain 
him  awhile  at  Rome,  he  would  learn  that  women  and 
njTnphs  (and  inconstancy  also)  are  one  and  the  same. 
These  cruel  men  have  no  lenity,  no  suavity.  They  who 
do  not  as  they  would  be  done  by,  are  done  by  very  much 
as  they  do.  Women  will  glide  away  from  them  like 
water:  they  can  better  bear  two  masters  than  half  one; 
and  a  new  metal  must  be  discovered  before  any  bars  are 
strong  enough  to  confine  them.  But  proceed  with  your 
narrative. 

Filippo.  Night  had  now  closed  upon  us.  Abdul 
placed  the  younger  of  the  company  apart;  and,  after 
giving  them  some  boiled  rice,  sent  them  down  into  his 
own  cabin.  The  sailors,  observing  the  consideration  and 
distinction  with  which  their  master  had  treated  me,  were 
civil  and  obliging.  Permission  was  granted  me,  at  my 
request,  to  sleep  on  deck. 

Eugenius.    What  became  of  your  canonico? 

Filippo.  The  crew  called  him  a  conger,  a  priest,  and  a 
porpoise. 

Eugenius.  Foul-mouthed  knaves!  could  not  one  of 
203 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

these  terms  content  them?  On  thy  leaving  Barbary  was 
he  left  behind? 

Filippo.  Your  Holiness  consecrated  him,  the  other  day, 
Bishop  of  Macerata. 

Eugenins.  True,  true;  I  remember  the  name,  Saccone. 
How  did  he  contrive  to  get  off? 

Filippo.  He  was  worth  little  at  any  work;  and  such 
men  are  the  quickest  both  to  get  off  and  to  get  on.  Abdul 
told  me  he  had  received  three  thousand  crowns  for  his 
ransom. 

Eugcnius.  He  was  worth  more  to  him  than  to  me.  I 
received  but  two  first-fruits,  and  such  other  things  as  of 
right  belong  to  me  by  inheritance.  The  bishopric  is 
passably  rich :  he  may  serve  thee. 

Filippo.  While  he  was  a  canonico  he  was  a  jolly  fellow  — 
not  very  generous,  for  jolly  fellows  are  seldom  that;  but 
he  would  give  a  friend  a  dinner,  a  flask  of  wine  or  two 
in  preference,  and  a  piece  of  advice  as  readily  as  either. 
I  waited  on  Monsignor  at  Macerata,  soon  after  his 
elevation. 

Eugenius.  He  must  have  been  heartily  glad  to  embrace 
his  companion  in  captivity,  and  the  more  especially  as  he 
himself  was  the  cause  of  so  grievous  a  misfortune. 

Filippo.  He  sent  me  word  he  was  so  unwell  he  could 
not  see  me.  "  What ! "  said  I  to  his  valet,  "  is  Monsignor's 
complaint  in  his  eyes?"  The  fellow  shrugged  up  his 
shoulders,  and  walked  away.  Not  believing  that  the 
message  was  a  refusal  to  admit  me,  I  went  straight  upstairs, 
and  finding  the  door  of  an  ante-chamber  half  open,  and  a 
chaplain  mulling  an  egg-posset  over  the  fire,  I  accosted 
him.  The  air  of  familiarity  and  satisfaction  he  observed 
in  me  left  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  I  had  been  invited  by 
his  patron.  "Will  the  man  never  come?"  cried  his  lord- 
204 


Monk  and   Lover 

ship.  "Yes,  Monsignorl"  exclaimed  I,  running  in  and 
embracing  him;  "behold  him  here!"  He  started  back, 
and  then  I  first  discovered  the  wide  difference  between  an 
old  friend  and  an  egg-posset. 

Eugenius.  Son  Filippo,  thou  hast  seen  but  little  of  the 
world,  and  art  but  just  come  from  Barbary.     Go  on. 

Filippo.  "Fra  Filippo,"  said  he  gravely,  "I  am  glad 
to  see  you.  I  did  not  e.xpect  you  just  at  present.  I  am  not 
very  well:  I  had  ordered  a  medicine,  and  was  impatient 
to  take  it.  If  you  will  favour  me  with  the  name  of  your  inn, 
I  will  send  for  you  when  I  am  in  a  condition  to  receive 
you;  perhaps  within  a  day  or  two."  "Monsignor,"  said 
I,  "a  change  of  residence  often  gives  a  man  a  cold,  and 
oftener  a  change  of  fortune.  Whether  you  caught  yours 
upon  deck  (where  we  last  saw  each  other),  from  being 
more  exposed  than  usual,  or  whether  the  mitre  holds  wind, 
is  no  question  for  me,  and  no  concern  of  mine." 

Eugenius.  A  just  reproof,  if  an  archbishop  had  made 
it.  On  uttering  it,  I  hope  thou  kneeledst  and  kissedst 
his  hand. 

Filippo.   I  did  not,  indeed. 

Eugenius.  O,  there  wert  thou  greatly  in  the  wrong. 
Having,  it  is  reported,  a  good  thousand  crowns  yearly  of 
patrimony,  and  a  canonicate  worth  six  hundred  more, 
he  might  have  attempted  to  relieve  thee  from  slavery,  by 
assisting  thy  relatives  in  thy  redemption. 

Filippo.  The  three  thousand  crowns  were  the  utter- 
most he  could  raise,  he  declared  to  Abdul ;  and  he  asserted 
that  a  part  of  the  money  was  contributed  by  the  inhabitants 
of  Pcsaro.  "Do  they  act  out  of  pure  mercy?"  said  he. 
"Ay,  they  must;  for  what  else  could  move  them  in  behalf 
of  such  a  lazy,  unserviceable,  street-fed  cur?"  In  the 
morning,  at  sunri.se,  he  was  sent  aboard.  .And  now,  the 
205 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

vessel  being  under-weigh,  "I  have  a  letter  from  my  lord 
Abdul,"  said  the  master,  "which,  being  in  thy  language, 
two  fellow-slaves  shall  read  unto  thee  publicly."  They 
came  forward  and  began  the  reading:  "Yesterday  I 
purchased  these  two  slaves  from  a  cruel,  unrelenting  master, 
under  whose  lash  they  have  laboured  for  nearly  thirty 
years.  I  hereby  give  orders  that  five  ounces  of  my  own 
gold  be  weighed  out  to  them."  Here  one  of  the  slaves  fell 
on  his  face ;  the  other  lifted  up  his  hands,  praised  God,  and 
blessed  his  benefactor. 

Eugenius.   The  pirate,  the  unconverted  pirate? 

Filippo.  Even  so.  "Here  is  another  slip  of  paper  for 
thyself  to  read  immediately  in  my  presence,"  said  the 
master.  The  words  it  contained  were  "Do  thou  the  same, 
or  there  enters  thy  lips  neither  food  nor  water  until  thou 
landest  in  Italy.  I  permit  thee  to  carry  away  more  than 
double  the  sum :  I  am  no  sutler ;  I  do  not  contract  for  thy 
sustenance."  The  canonico  asked  of  the  master  whether 
he  knew  the  contents  of  the  letter;  he  replied,  no.  "Tell 
your  master,  lord  Abdul,  that  I  shall  take  them  into  con- 
sideration." "My  lord  expected  a  much  plainer  answer; 
and  commanded  me,  in  case  of  any  such  as  thou  hast 
delivered,  to  break  this  seal."  He  pressed  it  to  his  fore- 
head, and  then  broke  it.  Having  perused  the  characters 
reverentially,  "Christian!  dost  thou  consent?"  The 
canonico  fell  on  his  knees,  and  overthrew  the  two  poor 
wretches  who,  saying  their  prayers,  had  remained  in  the 
same  posture  before  him,  quite  unnoticed.  "Open  thy 
trunk  and  take  out  thy  money-bag,  or  I  will  make  room  for  it 
in  thy  bladder."  The  canonico  was  prompt  in  the  execu- 
tion of  the  command.  The  master  drew  out  his  scales, 
and  desired  the  canonico  to  weigh  with  his  own  hand  five 
ounces.  He  groaned  and  trembled:  the  balance  was  un- 
206 


Monk  and   Lover 

steady.     "Throw  in  another  piece:    it  will  not  vitiate  the 
agreement,"  cried  the  master.     It  was  done.     Fear  and 
grief  are  among  the  thirsty  passions,  but  add  little  to  the 
appetite.     It  seemed,  however,  as  if  every  sigh  had  left  a 
vacancy  in  the  stomach  of  the  canonico.     At  dinner,  the 
cook  brought  him  a  salted  bonito,  half  an  ell  in  length; 
and  in  five  minutes  his  Reverence  was  drawing  his  middle 
finger  along  the  white  backbone  out  of  sheer  idleness, 
until  were  placed  before  him  some  as  fine  dried  locusts 
as  ever  provisioned  the  tents  of  Africa,  together  with  olives 
the  size  of  eggs  and  colour  of  bruises,  shining  in  oil  and  brine. 
He  found  them  savoury  and  pulpy;   and,  as  the  last  love 
supersedes  the  foregoing,  he  gave  them  the  preference,  even 
over  the  delicate  locusts.     When  he  had  finished  them,  he 
modestly  requested  a  can  of  water.     A  sailor   brought   a 
large   flask,   and  poured   forth  a  plentiful   supply.     The 
canonico  engulfed  the  whole,  and  instantly  threw  himself 
back  in  convulsive  agony.     "How  is  this ! "  cried  the  sailor. 
The  master  ran  up,  and,  smelling  the  water,  began  to 
buffet  him ;  exclaiming,  as  he  turned  round  to  all  the  crew, 
"How   came   this   flask  here?"     All   were   innocent.     It 
appeared,  however,  that  it  was  a  flask  of  mineral  water, 
strongly  sulphureous,  taken  out  of  a  Neapolitan  vessel 
laden  with  a  great  abundance  of  it  for  some  hospital  in  the 
Levant.     It  had  taken  the  captor  by  surprise  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  canonico.     He  himself  brought  out  instantly 
a  capacious  stone  jar  covered  with  dew,  and  invited  the 
sufferer  into  the  cabin.     Here  he  drew  forth  two  richly-cut 
wine-glasses,  and,  on  filling  one  of  them,  the  outside  of  it 
turned  suddenly  pale,  with  a  myriad  of  invisible  drops,  and 
the  senses  were  refreshed  with  the  most  delicious  fragrance. 
He  held  up  the  glass  between  himself  and  his  guest,  and, 
looking  at  it  attentively,  said,  "Here  is  no  appearance  of 
207 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

wine:  all  I  can  see  is  water.  Nothing  is  wickeder  than 
too  much  curiosity:  we  must  take  what  Allah  sends  us, 
and  render  thanks  for  it,  although  it  fall  far  short  of  our 
expectations.  Beside,  our  Prophet  would  rather  we  should 
even  drink  wine  than  poison."  The  canonico  had  not 
tasted  wine  for  two  months  —  a  longer  abstinence  than 
ever  canonico  endured  before.  He  drooped;  but  the 
master  looked  still  more  disconsolate.  "I  would  give 
whatever  I  possess  on  earth  rather  than  die  of  thirst," 
cried  the  canonico.  "Who  would  not?"  rejoined  the 
captain,  sighing  and  clasping  his  fingers.  "If  it  were  not 
contrary  to  my  commands,  I  could  touch  at  some  cove  or 
inlet."  "Do  for  the  love  of  Christ !"  exclaimed  the  canon- 
ico. "Or  even  sail  back,"  continued  the  captain.  "O 
Santa  Vergine ! "  cried  in  anguish  the  canonico.  "  Despond- 
ency," said  the  captain,  with  calm  solemnity,  "has  left 
many  a  man  to  be  thrown  overboard:  it  even  renders  the 
plague,  and  many  other  disorders,  more  fatal.  Thirst, 
too,  has  a  powerful  effect  in  exasperating  them.  Over- 
come such  weaknesses,  or  I  must  do  my  duty.  The  health 
of  the  ship's  company  is  placed  under  my  care;  and  our 
lord  Abdul,  if  he  suspected  the  pest,  would  throw  a  Jew, 
or  a  Christian,  or  even  a  bale  of  silk,  into  the  sea :  such  is  the 
disinterestedness  and  magnanimity  of  my  lord  Abdul." 
"He  believes  in  fate,  does  he  not?"  said  the  canonico. 
"Doubtless;  but  he  says  it  is  as  much  fated  that  he  should 
throw  into  the  sea  a  fellow  who  is  infected,  as  that  the 
fellow  should  have  ever  been  so."  "  Save  me,  O  save  me  i " 
cried  the  canonico,  moist  as  if  the  spray  had  pelted  him. 
"Willingly,  if  possible,"  answered  calmly  the  master.  "At 
present  I  can  discover  no  certain  symptoms;  for  sweat, 
unless  followed  by  general  prostration,  both  of  muscular 
strength  and  animal  spirits,  may  be  cured  without  a 
208 


Monk  and   Lover 

hook  at  the  heel."  "Giesu-Maria !  "  ejaculated  the 
canonico. 

Eiigenius.    And  the  monster  could  withstand  that  appeal  ? 

Filippo.  It  seems  so.  The  renegade  who  related  to 
me,  on  my  return,  these  events  as  they  happened,  was 
very  circumstantial.  He  is  a  Corsican,  and  had  killed 
many  men  in  battle,  and  more  out ;  but  is  (he  gave  me 
his  word  for  it)  on  the  whole  an  honest  man. 

Eiigenius.   How  so  ?     Honest  ?     And  a  renegade  ? 

Filippo.  He  declared  to  me  that,  although  the  Ma- 
hometan is  the  best  religion  to  live  in,  the  Christian  is  the 
best  to  die  in ;  and  that,  when  he  has  made  his  fortune,  he 
will  make  his  confession,  and  lie  snugly  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Church. 

Eiigenius.  See  here  the  triumphs  of  our  holy  faith ! 
The  lost  sheep  will  be  found  again. 

Filippo.     Having  played  the  butcher  first. 

Eiigenius.  Return  we  to  that  bad  man,  the  master  or 
captain,  who  evinced  no  such  dispositions. 

Filippo.  He  added,  "The  other  captives,  though  older 
men,  have  stouter  hearts  than  thine."  "Alas!  They  are 
longer  used  to  hardships,"  answered  he.  "Dost  thou 
believe,  in  thy  conscience,"  said  the  captain,  "that  the 
water  we  have  aboard  would  be  harmless  to  them  ?  for 
we  have  no  other;  and  wine  is  costly;  and  our  quantity 
might  be  insufficient  for  those  who  can  afford  to  pay  for 
it."  "I  will  answer  for  their  lives,"  replied  the  canonico. 
"With  thy  own?"  interrogated  sharply  the  Tunisian. 
"I  must  not  tempt  God,"  said,  in  tears,  the  religious  man. 
"Let  us  be  j^lain,"  said  the  master.  "Thou  knowest  thy 
money  is  safe:  I  myself  counted  it  before  thee  when  I 
brought  it  from  the  scrivener's.  Thou  hast  si.vty  broad  gold 
pieces;  wilt  thou  be  answerable,  to  the  whole  amount  of 
p  209 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

them,  for  the  lives  of  thy  two  countrymen  if  they  drink 
this  water?"  "O  sir!"  said  the  canonico,  "I  will  give  it, 
if,  only  for  these  few  days  of  voyage,  you  vouchsafe  me 
one  bottle  daily  of  that  restorative  wine  of  Bordeaux. 
The  other  two  are  less  liable  to  the  plague:  they  do  not 
sorrow  and  sweat  as  I  do.  They  are  spare  men.  There 
is  enough  of  me  to  infect  a  fleet  with  it;  and  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  being  any  wise  the  cause  of  evil  to  my  fellow- 
creatures."  "The wine  is  my  patron's,"  cried  the  Tunisian; 
"he  leaves  everything  at  my  discretion:  should  I  deceive 
him?"  "If  he  leaves  everything  at  your  discretion," 
observed  the  logician  of  Pesaro,  "there  is  no  deceit  in  dis- 
posing of  it."  The  master  appeared  to  be  satisfied  with 
the  argument.  "Thou  shalt  not  find  me  exacting,"  said 
he;  "give  me  the  sixty  pieces,  and  the  wine  shall  be  thine." 
At  a  signal,  when  the  contract  was  agreed  to,  the  two  slaves 
entered  bringing  a  hamper  of  jars.  "Read  the  contract 
before  thou  signest,"  cried  the  master.  He  read:  "How  is 
this?  how  is  this?  Sixty  golden  ducats  to  the  brothers 
Antonio  and  Bernabo  Panini,for  wine  received  from  them?" 
The  aged  men  tottered  under  the  stroke  of  joy;  and  Ber- 
nabo, who  would  have  embraced  his  brother,  fainted. 

On  the  morrow  there  was  a  calm,  and  the  weather  was 
extremely  sultry.  The  canonico  sat  in  his  shirt  on  deck, 
and  was  surprised  to  see,  I  forget  which  of  the  brothers, 
drink  from  a  goblet  a  prodigious  draught  of  water.  "Hold  !" 
cried  he  angrily:  "you  may  eat  instead;  but  putrid  or 
sulphureous  water,  you  have  heard,  may  produce  the 
plague,  and  honest  men  be  the  sufferers  by  your  folly  and  in- 
temperance." They  assured  him  the  water  was  tasteless, 
and  very  excellent,  and  had  been  kept  cool  in  the  same  kind 
of  earthen  jars  as  the  wine.  He  tasted  it  and  lost  his  pa- 
tience.    It  was  better,  he  protested,  than  any  wine  in  the 

2IO 


Monk  and    Lovei 

world.  They  begged  his  acceptance  of  the  jar  containing 
it.  But  the  master,  who  had  witnessed  at  a  distance  the 
whole  proceeding,  now  advanced;  and,  placing  his  hand 
against  it,  said  sternly,  "Let  him  have  his  own."  Usually, 
when  he  had  emptied  the  second  bottle,  a  desire  of  convert- 
ing the  Mahometans  came  over  him ;  and  they  showed  them- 
selves much  less  obstinate  and  refractory  than  they  are 
generally  thought.  He  selected  those  for  edification  who 
swore  the  oftenest  and  loudest  by  the  prophet;  and  he 
boasted  in  his  heart  of  having  overcome,  by  precept  and 
example,  the  stiffest  tenet  of  their  abominable  creed. 
Certainly  they  drank  wine,  and  somewhat  freely.  The 
canonico  clapped  his  hands,  and  declared  that  even  some 
of  the  apostles  had  been  more  pertinacious  recusants  of  the 
faith. 

Eugenius.  Did  he  so?  Cappari !  I  would  not  have 
made  him  a  bishop  for  twice  the  money  if  I  had  known 
it  earlier.  Could  not  he  have  left  them  alone?  Suppose 
one  or  other  of  them  did  doubt  and  persecute,  was  he  the 
man  to  blab  it  out  among  the  heathen? 

Filippo.  A  judgment,  it  appears,  fell  on  him  for  so 
doing.  A  very  quiet  sailor,  who  had  always  declined 
his  invitations,  and  had  always  heard  his  arguments  at  a 
distance  and  in  silence,  being  pressed  and  urged  by  him,  and 
reproved  somewhat  arrogantly  and  loudly,  as  less  docile  than 
his  messmates,  at  last  lifted  up  his  leg  behind  him,  pulled  oil 
his  right  slipper,  and  countcrl  deliberately  and  distinctly 
thirty-nine  sound  strokes  of  the  same  on  the  canonico's  broad- 
est tablet,  which  (please  your  Holiness)  might  be  called,  not 
inaptly,  from  that  day,  the  tablet  of  memory.  In  vain  he 
cried  out.  Some  of  the  mariners  made  their  moves  at  chess, 
and  waved  their  left  hands  as  if  desirous  of  no  interruption; 
others  went  backward  and  fonvard  about  their  business, 

211 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

and  took  no  more  notice  than  if  their  messmate  was  occu- 
pied in  caulking  a  seam  or  notching  a  flint.  The  master 
himself,  who  saw  the  operation,  heard  the  complaint  in  the 
evening,  and  lifted  up  his  shoulders  and  eyebrows  as  if  the 
whole  were  quite  unknown  to  him.  Then,  acting  as  judge- 
advocate,  he  called  the  young  man  before  him  and  repeated 
the  accusation.  To  this  the  defence  was  purely  interroga- 
tive. "Why  would  he  convert  me?  I  never  converted 
him."  Turning  to  his  spiritual  guide,  he  said,  "I  quite  for- 
give thee;  nay,  I  am  ready  to  appear  in  thy  favour,  and  to 
declare  that,  in  general,  thou  hast  been  more  decorous 
than  people  of  thy  faith  and  profession  usually  are,  and  hast 
not  scattered  on  deck  that  inilammatory  language  which  I, 
habited  in  the  dress  of  a  Greek,  heard  last  Easter.  I  went 
into  three  churches;  and  the  preachers  in  all  three  de- 
nounced the  curse  of  Allah  on  every  soul  that  differed 
from  them  a  tittle.  They  were  children  of  perdition, 
children  of  darkness,  children  of  the  devil,  one  and  all. 
It  seemed  a  matter  of  wonder  to  me,  that,  in  such  numerous 
families  and  of  such  indifferent  parentage,  so  many  slippers 
were  kept  under  the  heel.  Mine,  in  an  evil  hour,  escaped 
me;  but  I  quite  forgive  thee.  After  this  free  pardon,  I 
will  indulge  thee  with  a  short  specimen  of  my  preaching. 
I  will  call  none  of  you  a  generation  of  vipers,  as  ye  call  one 
another;  for  vipers  neither  bite  nor  eat  during  many 
months  of  the  year.  I  will  call  none  of  you  wolves  in  sheep's 
clothing;  for,  if  ye  are,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the 
clothing  is  very  clumsily  put  on.  You  priests,  however, 
take  people's  souls  aboard  whether  they  will  or  not,  just  as 
we  do  your  bodies;  and  you  make  them  pay  much  more 
for  keeping  these  in  slavery  than  we  make  you  pay  for 
setting  you  free,  body  and  soul  together.  You  declare 
that  the  precious  souls,  to  the  especial  care  of  which  Allah 

212 


Monk  and   Lover 

has  called  and  appointed  you,  frequently  grow  corrupt, 
and  stink  in  his  nostrils.  Now,  I  invoke  thy  own  testimony 
to  the  fact:  thy  soul,  gross  as  I  imagine  it  to  be  from  the 
greasy  wallet  that  holds  it,  had  no  carnal  thoughts  whatso- 
ever, and  that  thy  carcass  did  not  even  receive  a  fly-blow 
while  it  was  under  my  custody.  Thy  guardian  angel  (I 
speak  it  in  humility)  could  not  ventilate  thee  better.  Never- 
theless, I  should  scorn  to  demand  a  single  maravedi  for  my 
labour  and  skill,  or  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  my  pantofle. 
My  reward  will  be  in  Paradise,  where  a  Houri  is  standing  in 
the  shade,  above  a  vase  of  gold  and  silver  fish,  with  a  kiss 
on  her  lip,  and  an  unbroken  pair  of  green  slippers  in  her 
hand  for  me."  Saying  which,  he  took  off  his  foot  again  the 
one  he  had  been  using,  and  showed  the  sole  of  it,  first  to  the 
master,  then  to  all  the  crew;  and  declared  it  had  become 
(as  they  might  see)  so  smooth  and  oily  by  the  application, 
that  it  was  dangerous  to  walk  on  deck  in  it. 

Eugenius.  See,  what  notions  these  creatures  have, 
both  of  their  fool's  paradise  and  of  our  holy  faith !  The 
seven  sacraments,  I  warrant  you,  go  for  nothing  1  Pur- 
gatory, purgatory  itself,  goes  for  nothing  I 

Filippo.  Holy  Father,  we  must  stop  thee.  Thai  does 
not  go  for  nothing,  however. 

Eugenius.  Filippo !  God  forbid  I  should  suspect  thee 
of  any  heretical  taint;  but  this  smells  very  like  it.  If 
thou  hast  it  now,  tell  me  honestly.  I  mean,  hold  thy 
tongue.  Florentines  are  rather  lax.  Even  Son  Cosimo 
might  be  stricter,  so  they  say  —  perhaps  his  enemies. 
The  great  always  have  them  abundantly,  l>eside  those  by 
whom  they  are  served,  and  those  also  whom  they  serve. 
Now  would  I  give  a  silver  rose,  with  my  benediction  on  it, 
to  know  of  a  certainty  what  became  of  those  poor  creatures, 
the  abbates.  The  initiatory  rite  of  Mahometanism  is 
P  213 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

most  diabolically  malicious.  According  to  the  canons  of 
our  Catholic  Church,  it  disqualifies  the  neophyte  for  holy 
orders,  without  going  so  far  as  adapting  him  to  the  choir 
of  the  pontifical  chapel.     They  limp;  they  halt. 

Filippo.   Beatitude !     Which  of  them  ? 

Eugenius.  The  unbelievers:  they  surely  are  found 
wanting. 

Filippo.   The  unbelievers  too  ? 

Eugenius.  Ay,  ay,  thou  half  renegade !  Couldst  not 
thou  go  over  with  a  purse  of  silver,  and  try  whether  the 
souls  of  these  captives  be  recoverable !  Even  if  they 
should  have  submitted  to  such  unholy  rites,  I  venture  to 
say  they  have  repented. 

Filippo.    The  devil  is  in  them  if  they  have  not. 

Eugenius.  They  may  become  again  as  good  Christians 
as  before. 

Filippo.   Easily,  methinks. 

Eugenius.  Not  so  easily;  but  by  aid  of  Holy  Church 
in  the  administration  of  indulgences. 

Filippo.   They  never  wanted  those,  whatever  they  want. 

Eugenius.  The  corsair,  then,  is  not  one  of  those  ferocious 
creatures  which  appear  to  connect  our  species  with  the  lion 
and  panther. 

Filippo.  By  no  means,  Holy  Father !  He  is  an  honest 
man;  so  are  many  of  his  countrymen,  bating  the  sacra- 
ment. 

Eugenius.  Bating !  Poor  beguiled  Filippo !  Being  un- 
baptized,  they  are  only  as  the  beasts  that  perish:  nay 
worse;  for,  the  soul  being  imperishable,  it  must  stick  to 
their  bodies  at  the  last  day,  whether  they  will  or  no,  and 
must  sink  with  it  into  the  fire  and  brimstone. 

Filippo.  Unbaptized !  Why,  they  baptize  every  morn- 
ing. 

214 


Monk  and   Lover 

Eugenius.  Worse  and  worse !  I  thought  they  only 
missed  the  stirrup ;  I  find  they  overleap  the  saddle.  Obsti- 
nate, blind  reprobates !  of  whom  it  is  written  —  of  whom  it  is 
written  —  of  whom,  I  say,  it  is  written  —  as  shall  be  mani- 
fest before  men  and  angels  in  the  day  of  wrath. 

Filippo.  More  is  the  pity;  for  they  are  hospitable, 
frank  and  courteous.  It  is  delightful  to  see  their  gardens, 
when  one  has  not  the  weeding  and  irrigation  of  them. 
What  fruit!  What  foliage!  What  trellises!  What  al- 
coves !  What  a  contest  of  rose  and  jessamine  for  suprem- 
acy in  odour,  of  lute  and  nightingale  for  victory  in  song! 
And  how  the  little  bright  ripples  of  the  docile  brooks,  the 
fresher  for  their  races,  leap  up  against  one  another,  to  look 
on  !  And  how  they  chirrup  and  applaud,  as  if  they  too  had 
a  voice  of  some  importance  in  these  parties  of  pleasure 
that  are  loath  to  separate  ! 

Eugenius.  Parties  of  pleasure !  Birds,  fruits,  shallow- 
running  waters,  lute-players,  and  wantons!  Parties  of 
pleasure !  And  composed  of  these !  Tell  nie  now, 
Filippo,  tell  me  truly,  what  complexion  in  general  have  the 
discreeter  females  of  that  hapless  country. 

Filippo.  The  colour  of  an  orange-flower,  on  which  an 
over-laden  bee  has  left  a  slight  suffusion  of  her  purest  honey. 

Eugenius.    We  must  open  their  eyes. 

Filippo.  Knowing  what  excellent  hides  the  slippers  of 
tliis  people  are  made  of,  I  never  once  ventured  on  their  less 
|)erfect  theology,  fearing  to  find  it  written  that  I  should  be 
aljed  on  my  face  the  next  fortnight.  My  master  had  ex- 
pressed his  astonishment  that  a  religion  so  admirable  as 
ours  was  represented,  should  be  the  only  one  in  the  world 
the  precepts  of  which  are  disregarded  by  all  conrlitions  of 
men.  "Our  Prophet,"  .said  he,  "our  Prophet  ordered  us 
to  go  forth  and  conquer;  we  did  it:   yours  ordered  you  to 

215 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

sit  quiet  and  forbear;  and,  after  spitting  in  his  face,  you 
threw  the  order  back  into  it,  and  fought  Hke  devils." 

Eugenius.  The  barbarians  talk  of  our  Holy  Scriptures 
as  if  they  understood  them  perfectly.  The  impostor  they 
follow  has  nothing  but  fustian  and  rhodomontade  in  his 
impudent  lying  book  from  beginning  to  end.  I  know  it, 
Filippo,  from  those  who  have  contrasted  it,  page  by  page, 
paragraph  by  paragraph,  and  have  given  the  knave  his 
due. 

Filippo.  Abdul  is  by  no  means  deficient  in  a  good 
opinion  of  his  own  capacity  and  his  Prophet's  all-sufl&- 
ciency ;  but  he  never  took  me  to  task  about  my  faith  or  his 
own. 

Eugenius.    How  wert  thou  mainly  occupied  ? 

Filippo.  I  will  give  your  Holiness  a  sample  both  of  my 
employments  and  of  his  character.  He  was  going  one 
evening  to  a  country-house,  about  fifteen  miles  from  Tunis; 
and  he  ordered  me  to  accompany  him.  I  found  there  a 
spacious  garden,  overrun  with  wild  flowers,  and  most  luxuri- 
ant grass,  in  irregular  tufts,  according  to  the  dryness  or  the 
humidity  of  the  spot.  The  clematis  overtopped  the  lemon 
and  orange-trees;  and  the  perennial  pea  sent  forth  here  a 
pink  blossom,  here  a  purple,  here  a  white  one,  and,  after 
holding  (as  it  were)  a  short  conversation  with  the  humbler 
plants,  sprang  up  about  an  old  cypress,  played  among  its 
branches,  and  mitigated  its  gloom.  White  pigeons,  and 
others  in  colour  like  the  dawn  of  day,  looked  down  on  us 
and  ceased  to  coo,  until  some  of  their  companions,  in  whom 
they  had  more  confidence,  encouraged  them  loudly  from 
remoter  boughs,  or  alighted  on  the  shoulders  of  Abdul,  at 
whose  side  I  was  standing.  A  few  of  them  examined 
me  in  every  position  their  inquisitive  eyes  could  take; 
displaying  all  the  advantages  of  their  versatile  necks,  and 
216 


Monk  and   Lover 

pretending    querulous    fear    in    the    midst    of    petulant 
approaches. 

Eugenius.  Is  it  of  pigeons  thou  art  talking,  O  Filippo? 
I  hope  it  may  be. 

Filippo.  Of  Abdul's  pigeons.  He  was  fond  of  taming 
all  creatures  —  men,  horses,  pigeons,  equally;  but  he  tamed 
them  all  by  kindness.  In  this  wilderness  is  an  edifice 
not  unlike  our  Italian  chapter-houses  built  by  the  Lom- 
bards, with  long  narrow  windows,  high  above  the  ground 
The  centre  is  now  a  bath,  the  waters  of  which,  in  another 
part  of  the  enclosure,  had  su{)plied  a  fountain,  at  present  in 
ruins,  and  covered  by  tufted  canes,  and  by  every  variety  of 
aquatic  plants.  The  structure  has  no  remains  of  roof; 
and,  of  si.x  windows,  one  alone  is  unconcealed  by  ivy. 
This  had  been  walled  up  long  ago,  and  the  cement  in  the 
inside  of  it  was  hard  and  polished.  "Lippi !"  said  Abdul 
to  me,  after  I  had  long  admired  the  place  in  silence,  "I 
leave  to  thy  superintendence  this  bath  and  garden.  Be 
sparing  of  the  leaves  and  branches;  make  paths  only  wide 
enough  for  me.  Let  me  see  no  mark  of  hatchet  or  pruning- 
hook,  and  tell  the  labourers  that  whoever  takes  a  nest  or  an 
egg  shall  be  impaled." 

Eugenius.  Monster!  So  then  he  would  really  have 
impaled  a  poor  wretch  for  eating  a  bird's  egg?  How 
disproportionate  is  the  punishment  to  the  offence! 

Filippo.  He  efficiently  checked  in  his  slaves  the  desire 
of  transgressing  his  command  To  spare  them  as  much 
as  possible,  I  ordered  them  merely  to  ojien  a  few  spaces, 
ancl  to  remove  the  weaker  trees  from  the  stronger.  Mean- 
while I  drew  on  the  smooth  bl;uik  window  the  figure  of 
Abdul  and  of  a  beautiful  girl. 

Eugenius.  Rather  say  handmaiden:  choicer  expression, 
more  decorous. 

217 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

Filippo.  Holy  Father!  I  have  been  lately  so  much 
out  of  practice,  I  take  the  first  that  comes  in  my  way 
Handmaiden  I  will  use  in  preference  for  the  future. 

Eugenius.   On  then  !     And  God  speed  thee  ! 

Filippo.  I  drew  Abdul  with  a  blooming  handmaiden. 
One  of  his  feet  is  resting  on  her  lap,  and  she  is  drying  the 
ankle  with  a  saffron  robe,  of  which  the  greater  part  is  fallen 
in  doing  it.  That  she  is  a  bondmaid  is  discernible,  not 
only  by  her  occupation,  but  by  her  humility  and  patience, 
by  her  loose  and  flowing  brown  hair,  and  by  her  eyes  ex- 
pressing the  timidity  at  once  of  servitude  and  of  fondness. 
The  countenance  was  taken  from  fancy,  and  was  the  love- 
liest I  could  imagine;  of  the  figure  I  had  some  idea,  having 
seen  it  to  advantage  in  Tunis.  After  seven  days  Abdul 
returned.  He  was  delighted  with  the  improvement  made 
in  the  garden.  I  requested  him  to  visit  the  bath.  "We 
can  do  nothing  to  that,"  answered  he,  impatiently.  "There 
is  no  sudatory,  no  dormitory,  no  dressing-room,  no  couch. 
Sometimes  I  sit  an  hour  there  in  the  summer,  because  I 
never  found  a  fly  in  it ;  the  principal  curse  of  hot  countries, 
and  against  which  plague  there  is  neither  prayer  nor 
amulet,  nor  indeed  any  human  defence."  He  went  away 
into  the  house.  At  dinner,  he  sent  me  from  his  table 
some  quails  and  ortolans,  and  tomatoes  and  honey  and 
rice;  beside  a  basket  of  fruit  covered  with  moss  and 
bay-leaves,  under  which  I  found  a  verdino  fig,  deliciously 
ripe,  and  bearing  the  impression  of  several  small  teeth, 
but  certainly  no  reptile's. 

Eugenius.  There  might  have  been  poison  in  them,  for 
all  that. 

Filippo.  About  two  hours  had  passed,  when  I  heard 
a  whirr  and  a  crash  in  the  windows  of  the  bath  (where 
I  had  dined  and  was  about  to  sleep),  occasioned  by  the 
218 


Monk  and   Lover 

settling  and  again  the  flight  of  some  pheasants.  Abdul 
entered.  "Beard  of  the  Prophet!  what  hast  thou  been 
doing  ?  That  is  myself !  No,  no,  Lippi !  Thou  never 
canst  have  seen  her:  the  face  proves  it;  but  those  limbs! 
thou  hast  divined  them  aright;  thou  hast  had  sweet 
dreams  then!  Dreams  are  large  possessions;  in  them 
the  possessor  may  cease  to  possess  his  own.  To  the 
slave,  O  Allah,  to  the  slave  is  permitted  what  is  not  his ! 
—  I  bum  with  anguish  to  think  how  much  —  yea,  at 
that  very  hour.  I  would  not  another  should,  even  in  a 
dream  —  But,  Lippi !  thou  never  canst  have  seen  above 
the  sandal?"  To  which  I  answered,  "I  never  have 
allowed  my  eyes  to  look  even  on  that.  But  if  any  one 
of  my  lord  Abdul's  fair  slaves  resembles,  as  they  surely 
must  all  do,  in  duty  and  docility,  the  figure  I  have  repre- 
sented, let  it  express  to  him  my  congratulations  on  his 
happiness."  "I  believe,"  said  he,  "such  representations 
are  forbidden  by  the  Koran;  but,  as  I  do  not  remember 
it,  I  do  not  sin.  There  it  shall  stay,  unless  the  angel 
Gabriel  comes  to  forbid  it."     He  smiled  in  saying  so. 

Eugenius.  There  is  hope  of  this  Abdul.  His  faith 
hangs  about  him  more  like  oil  than  pitch. 

Filippo.  He  inquired  of  me  whether  I  often  thought 
of  those  I  loved  in  Italy,  and  whether  I  could  bring  them 
before  my  eyes  at  will.  To  remove  all  suspicion  from  him, 
I  declared  I  always  could,  and  that  one  beautiful  object 
occupied  all  the  cells  of  my  brain  by  night  and  day.  He 
paused  and  pondered,  and  then  said,  "Thou  dost  not  love 
deeply."  I  thought  I  had  given  the  true  signs.  "No, 
Lippi,  we  who  love  ardently,  we,  with  all  our  wishes,  all 
the  efforts  of  our  souls,  cannot  bring  before  us  the  features 
which,  while  they  were  present,  we  thought  it  impossible 
we  ever  could  forget.  Alas,  when  we  most  love  the  absent, 
219 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

when  we  most  desire  to  see  her,  we  try  in  vain  to  bring 
her  image  back  to  us.  The  troubled  heart  shakes  and 
confounds  it,  even  as  rufHed  waters  do  with  shadows. 
Hateful  things  are  more  hateful  when  they  haunt  our  sleep : 
the  lovely  flee  away,  or  are  changed  into  less  lovely." 

Eugeniiis.    What  figures  now  have  these  unbelievers? 

Filippo.  Various  in  their  combinations  as  the  letters 
or  the  numerals;  but  they  all,  like  these,  signify  some- 
thing. Almeida  (did  I  not  inform  your  Holiness?)  has 
large  hazel  eyes  — 

Eugenius.  Has  she?  Thou  never  toldest  me  that. 
Well,  well,  and  what  else  has  she?  Mind!  Be  cautious! 
Use  decent  terms. 

Filippo.    Somewhat  pouting  lips. 

Eugenius.    Ha !  ha !     What  did  they  pout  at  ? 

Filippo.  And  she  is  rather  plump  than  otherwise. 

Eugenius.    No  harm  in  that. 

Filippo.  And  moreover  is  cool,  smooth,  and  firm  as 
a  nectarine  gathered  before  sunrise. 

Eugenius.  Ha !  ha !  Do  not  remind  me  of  nectarines. 
I  am  very  fond  of  them ;  and  this  is  not  the  season  !  Such 
females  as  thou  describest  are  said  to  be  among  the  likeliest 
to  give  reasonable  cause  for  suspicion.  I  would  not 
judge  harshly,  I  would  not  think  uncharitably;  but,  un- 
happily, being  at  so  great  a  distance  from  spiritual  aid, 
peradventure  a  desire,  a  suggestion,  an  inkling — -ay? 
If  she,  the  lost  Almeida,  came  before  thee  when  her  master 
was  absent  —  which  I  trust  she  never  did  —  But  those 
flowers  and  shrubs  and  odours  and  alleys  and  long  grass 
and  alcoves  might  strangely  hold,  perplex,  and  entangle 
two  incautious  young  persons  —  ay  ? 

Filippo.  I  confessed  all  I  had  to  confess  in  this  matter, 
the  evening  I  landed. 

220 


Monk  and   Lover 

Eugenius.  Ho!  I  am  no  candidate  for  a  seat  at  the 
rehearsal  of  confessions;  but  perhaps  my  absolution 
might  be  somewhat  more  pleasing  and  unconditioncl. 
Well !  well !  Since  I  am  unworthy  of  such  confidence,  go 
about  thy  business  —  paint !  paint ! 

Filippo.  Am  I  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  offended  your 
Beatitude? 

Eugenius.  Offend  me,  man !  Who  offends  me?  I 
took  an  interest  in  thy  adventures,  and  was  concerned 
lest  thou  mightest  have  sinned;  for,  by  my  soul,  Filippo, 
those  are  the  women  that  the  devil  hath  set  his  mark  on. 

Filippo.  It  would  do  your  Holiness's  heart  good  to 
rub  it  out  again,  wherever  he  may  have  had  the  cunning 
to  make  it. 

Eugenius.   Deep !     Deep ! 

Filippo.  Yet  it  may  be  got  at;  she  being  a  Biscayan 
by  birth,  as  she  told  me,  and  not  only  baptized,  but  going 
by  sea  along  the  coast  for  confirmation,  when  she  was 
captured. 

Eugenius.  Alas,  to  what  an  imposition  of  hands  was 
this  tender  young  thing  devoted !     Poor  soul ! 

Filippo.    I   sigh  for   her  myself  when  I  think  of   her. 

Eugenius.  Beware  lest  the  sigh  be  mundane,  and  lest 
the  thought  recur  too  often.  I  wish  it  were  presently 
in  my  pov/er  to  examine  her  myself  on  her  condition. 
What  thinkest  thou  !     Speak. 

Filippo.    Holy  Father,  she  would  laugh  in  your  face. 

Eugenius.   So  lost! 

Filippo.  She  declared  to  me  she  thought  she  should 
have  died,  from  the  instant  she  was  captured  until  she 
was  comforted  l)y  Abdul;  but  that  she  was  quite  sure  she 
should  if  she  were  ran.somed. 

Eugenius.   Has  the  wretch  then  shaken  her  faith? 
221 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Filippo.  The  very  last  thing  he  would  think  of  doing. 
Never  did  I  see  the  virtue  of  resignation  in  higher  per- 
fection than  in  the  laughing,  light-hearted  Almeida. 

Eugenius.  Lamentable  !  Poor  lost  creature !  lost  in  this 
world  and  in  the  next. 

Filippo.  What  could  she  do?  How  could  she  help 
herself? 

Eugenius.  She  might  have  torn  his  eyes  out,  and  have 
died  a  martyr. 

Filippo.  Or  have  been  bastinadoed,  whipped,  and  given 
up  to  the  cooks  and  scullions  for  it. 

Eugenius.  Martyrdom  is  the  more  glorious  the  greater 
the  indignities  it  endures. 

Filippo.  Almeida  seems  unambitious.  There  are  many 
in  our  Tuscany  who  would  jump  at  the  crown  over  those 
sloughs  and  briers  rather  than  perish  without  them:  she 
never  sighs  after  the  like. 

Eugenius.  Nevertheless,  what  must  she  witness !  What 
abominations!     What  superstitions! 

Filippo.  Abdul  neither  practises  nor  exacts  any  other 
superstition  than  ablutions. 

Eugenius.  Detestable  rites,  without  our  authority!  I 
venture  to  affirm  that,  in  the  whole  of  Italy  and  Spain, 
no  convent  of  monks  or  nuns  contains  a  bath;  and  that 
the  worst  inmate  of  either  would  shudder  at  the  idea  of 
observing  such  a  practice  in  common  with  the  unbeliever. 
For  the  washing  of  the  feet  indeed  we  have  the  authority 
of  the  earlier  Christians ;  and  it  may  be  done,  but  solemnly 
and  sparingly.  Thy  residence  among  the  Mahometans, 
I  am  afraid,  hath  rendered  thee  more  favourable  to  them 
than  beseems  a  Catholic,  and  thy  mind,  I  do  suspect, 
sometimes  goes  back  into  Barbary  unreluctantly. 

Filippo.    While  I  continued  in  that  country,  although 

222 


Monk  and   Lover 

I  was  well  treated,  I  often  wished  myself  away,  thinking 
of  my  friends  in  Florence  ^  of  music,  of  painting,  of  our 
villegiatura  at  the  vintage-time;  whether  in  the  green 
and  narrow  glades  of  Pratolino,  with  lofty  trees  above 
us,  and  little  rills  unseen,  and  little  bells  about  the  necks 
of  sheep  and  goats,  tinkling  together  ambiguously,  or 
amid  the  gray  quarries,  or  under  the  majestic  walls  of 
ancient  Fiesole;  or  down  in  the  woods  of  the  Doccia, 
where  the  cypresses  are  of  such  girth  that,  when  a  youth 
stands  against  one  of  them,  and  a  maiden  stands  opposite, 
and  they  clasp  it,  their  hands  at  the  time  do  little  more 
than  meet.  Beautiful  scenes,  on  which  Heaven  smiles 
eternally,  how  often  has  my  heart  ached  for  you!  He 
who  hath  lived  in  this  country  can  enjoy  no  distant  one. 
He  breathes  here  another  air ;  he  lives  more  life ;  a  brighter 
sun  invigorates  his  studies,  and  serener  stars  influence  his 
repose.  Barbary  hath  also  the  blessing  of  climate;  and, 
although  I  do  not  desire  to  be  there  again,  I  feel  sometimes 
a  kind  of  regret  at  leaving  it.  A  bell  warbles  the  more 
mellifluously  in  the  air  when  the  sound  of  the  stroke  is 
over,  and  when  another  swims  out  from  underneath  it, 
and  pants  upon  the  element  that  gave  it  birth.  In  like 
manner,  the  recollection  of  a  thing  is  frequently  more 
pleasing  than  the  actuality:  what  is  harsh  is  dropped  in 
the  space  between.  There  is  in  Abdul  a  nobility  of  soul 
on  which  I  often  have  reflected  with  admiration.  I  have 
seen  many  of  the  highest  rank  and  distinction,  in  whom 
I  could  find  nothing  of  the  great  man,  excepting  a  fondness 
for  low  company,  and  an  aptitude  to  shy  and  start  at  every 
spark  of  genius  or  virtue  that  sprang  up  above  or  before 
them.  Abdul  was  solitary,  but  affable;  he  was  proud, 
but  patient  and  complacent.  I  ventured  once  to  ask  him 
how  the  master  of  so  rich  a  hou.sc  in  the  city,  of  so  many 
223 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

slaves,  of  so  many  horses  and  mules,  of  such  cornfields, 
of  such  pastures,  of  such  gardens,  woods,  and  fountains, 
should  experience  any  delight  or  satisfaction  in  infesting 
the  open  sea,  the  high-road  of  nations?  Instead  of  an- 
swering my  question,  he  asked  me  in  return,  whether  I 
would  not  respect  any  relative  of  mine  who  avenged  his 
country,  enriched  himself  by  his  bravery,  and  endeared 
to  him  his  friends  and  relatives  by  his  bounty?  On  my 
reply  in  the  affirmative,  he  said  that  his  family  had  been 
deprived  of  possessions  in  Spain,  much  more  valuable  than 
all  the  ships  and  cargoes  he  could  ever  hope  to  capture, 
and  that  the  remains  of  his  nation  were  threatened  with 
ruin  and  expulsion. 

"I  do  not  fight,"  said  he,  "whenever  it  suits  the  con- 
venience, or  gratifies  the  malignity  or  the  caprice,  of  two 
silly,  quarrelsome  princes ;  drawing  my  sword  in  perfectly 
good-humour,  and  sheathing  it  again  at  word  of  command, 
just  when  I  begin  to  get  into  a  passion.  No:  I  fight  on 
my  own  account;  not  as  a  hired  assassin,  or  still  baser 
journeyman." 

Eugenius.  It  appears,  then,  really  that  the  infidels 
have  some  semblances  of  magnanimity  and  generosity? 

Filippo.  I  thought  so  when  I  turned  over  the  many 
changes  of  fine  linen ;  and  I  was  little  short  of  conviction 
when  I  found  at  the  bottom  of  my  chest  two  hundred 
Venetian  zecchins. 

Eugenius.  Corpo  di  Bacco!  Better  things,  far  better 
things,  I  would  fain  do  for  thee,  not  exactly  of  this  de- 
scription; it  would  excite  many  heart-burnings.  Infor- 
mation has  been  laid  before  me,  Filippo,  that  thou  art 
attached  to  a  certain  young  person,  by  name,  Lucrezia, 
daughter  of  Francesco  Buti,  a  citizen  of  Prato. 

Filippo.  I  acknowledge  my  attachment:  it  continues. 
224 


Monk  and   Lover 

Eugenius.  Furthermore,  that  thou  hast  offspring  by 
her. 

Filippo.   Alas,  'tis  undeniable! 

Eugenius.  I  will  not  only  legitimatize  the  said  off- 
spring by  )notu  propria  and  rescript  to  consistory  and 
chancer)'  — 

Filippo.  Holy  Father!  Holy  Father!  For  the  love 
of  the  Virgin,  not  a  word  to  consistory  or  chancery,  of 
the  two  hundred  zecchins.  As  I  hope  for  salvation,  I 
have  but  forty  left  ;  and  thirty-nine  would  not  serve 
them. 

Eugenius.  Fear  nothing.  Not  only  will  I  perform 
what  I  have  promised,  not  only  will  I  give  the  strictest 
order  that  no  money  be  demanded  by  any  officer  of  my 
courts,  but,  under  the  seal  of  St.  Peter,  I  will  declare  thee 
and  Lucrezia  Buti  man  and  wife. 

Filippo.    Man  and  wife ! 

Eugenius.    Moderate  thy  transport. 

Filippo.    O  Holy  Father,  may  I  speak? 

Eugenius.   Surely,  she  is  not  the  wife  of  another? 

Filippo.   No  indeed. 

Eugenius.  Nor  within  the  degrees  of  consanguinity  and 
affmity? 

Filippo.  No,  no,  no.  But  —  man  and  wife !  Con- 
sistory and  chancery  are  nothing  to  this  fulmination. 

Eugenius.   How  so? 

Filippo.  It  is  man  and  wife  the  first  fortnight,  but  wife 
and  man  ever  after.  The  two  figures  change  places:  the 
unit  is  the  decimal,  and  the  decimal  is  the  unit. 

Eugenius.    What  then  can  I  do  for  thee? 

Filippo.   I  love  Lucrezia:   let  me  love  her;  let  her  love 
me.     I  can  make  her  at  any  time  what  she  is  not :  I  could 
never  make  her  again  what  she  is. 
Q  225 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Eugenius.  The  only  thing  I  can  do,  then,  is  to  promise 
I  will  forget  that  I  have  heard  anything  about  the  matter. 
But  to  forget  it  I  must  hear  it  first. 

Filippo.  In  the  beautiful  little  town  of  Prato,  reposing 
in  its  idleness  against  the  hill  that  protects  it  from  the  north, 
and  looking  over  fertile  meadows,  southward  to  Poggio 
Cajano,  westward  to  Pistoja,  there  is  the  convent  of  Santa 
Margarita.  I  was  invited  by  the  sisters  to  paint  an  altar- 
piece  for  the  chapel.  A  novice  of  fifteen,  my  own  sweet 
Lucrezia,  came  one  day  alone  to  see  me  work  at  my  Ma- 
donna. Her  blessed  countenance  had  already  looked  down 
on  every  beholder  lower  by  the  knees.  I  myself,  who 
made  her,  could  almost  have  worshipped  her. 

Eugenius.  Not  while  incomplete:  no  half-virgin  will 
do. 

Filippo.  But  there  knelt  Lucrezia!  There  she  knelt! 
First  looking  with  devotion  at  the  Madonna,  then  with 
admiring  wonder  and  grateful  delight  at  the  artist.  Could 
so  little  a  heart  be  divided?  'Twere  a  pity!  There  was 
enough  for  me:  there  is  never  enough  for  the  Madonna. 
Resolving  on  a  sudden  that  the  object  of  my  love  should 
be  the  object  of  adoration  to  thousands,  born  and  unborn, 
I  swept  my  brush  across  the  maternal  face,  and  left  a 
blank  in  heaven.  The  little  girl  screamed:  I  pressed  her 
to  my  bosom. 

Eugenius.    In  the  chapel? 

Filippo.  I  knew  not  where  I  was:  I  thought  I  was  in 
Paradise. 

Eugenius.  If  it  was  not  in  the  chapel,  the  sin  is  venial. 
But  a  brush  against  a  Madonna's  mouth  is  worse  than 
a  beard  against  her  votary's. 

Filippo.   I  thought  so  too.  Holy  Father! 

Eugenius.  Thou  sayest  thou  hast  forty  zecchins:  I 
226 


Monk  and   Lover 

will  trj-  in  due  season  to  add  forty  more.  The  fisherman 
must  not  venture  to  measure  forces  with  the  pirate. 
Farewell  1  I  pray  God,  my  son  Filippo,  to  have  thee 
alway  in  His  holy  keeping. 

W.  S.  Landor 


227 


XVII 
SIX   PAINTERS 

Leonardo  da  Vinci    ^;>        -^i^        -^v^        <:>        "^^ 

HE  drew  on  paper  also  with  so  much  care  and  so  per- 
fectly, that  no  one  has  ever  equalled  him  in  this  respect : 
I  have  a  head  by  him  in  chiaroscuro,  which  is  divine. 
Leonardo  was  indeed  so  imbued  with  power  and  grace 
by  the  hand  of  God,  and  was  endowed  with  so  marvellous 
a  facility  in  reproducing  his  conceptions,  his  memory 
also  was  always  so  ready  in  the  service  of  his  intellect, 
that  he  won  all  men  by  his  discourse,  and  the  force  of  his 
arguments.  .  .  . 

In  conversation  Leonardo  was  so  pleasing  that  he  won 
the  hearts  of  all,  and  though  possessing  so  small  a  patri- 
mony only  that  it  might  almost  be  called  nothing,  while 
he  yet  worked  very  little,  he  still  constantly  kept  many 
servants  and  horses,  taking  extraordinary  delight  in  the 
latter:  he  was  indeed  fond  of  all  animals,  ever  treating 
them  with  infinite  kindness  and  consideration ;  as  a  proof 
of  this  it  is  related,  that  when  he  passed  places  where  birds 
were  sold,  he  would  frequently  take  them  from  their 
cages,  and  having  paid  the  price  demanded  for  them  by 
the  sellers,  would  then  let  them  fly  into  the  air,  thus  re- 
storing to  them  the  liberty  they  had  lost.  Leonardo  was 
2*8 


Six  Painters 

so  highly  favoured  by  nature,  that  to  whatever  he  turned 
his  thoughts,  mind,  and  spirit,  he  gave  proof  in  all  of  such 
admirable  power  and  perfection,  that  whatever  he  did 
bore  an  impress  of  harmony,  truthfulness,  goodness, 
sweetness,  and  grace,  wherein  no  other  man  could  ever 
equal  him.  .  .  . 

Leonardo  was  so  much  pleased  when  he  encountered 
faces  of  extraordinary  character,  or  heads,  beards,  or 
hair  of  unusual  appearance,  that  he  would  follow  any  such, 
more  than  commonly  attractive,  through  the  whole  day, 
until  the  figure  of  the  person  would  become  so  well  im- 
pressed on  his  mind  that,  having  returned  home,  he  would 
draw  him  as  readily  as  though  he  stood  before  him.  Of 
heads  thus  obtained  there  exist  many,  both  masculine 
and  feminine;  and  I  have  myself  several  of  them  drawn 
with  a  pen  by  his  own  hand,  in  the  book  of  drawings  so 
frequently  cited. 

On  the  death  of  Giovanni  Galeazzo,  Duke  of  Milan,  in 
the  year  1493,  Ludovico  Sforza  was  chosen  in  the  same 
year  to  be  his  successor,  when  Leonardo  was  invited  with 
great  honour  to  Milan  by  the  Duke,  who  delighted  greatly 
in  the  music  of  the  lute,  to  the  end  that  the  master  might 
play  before  him;  Leonardo  therefore  took  with  him  a 
certain  instrument  which  he  had  himself  constructed  almost 
wholly  of  silver,  and  in  the  shape  of  a  horse's  head,  a  new 
and  fanciful  form  calculated  to  give  more  force  and  sweet- 
ness to  the  sound.  Here  Leonardo  surpassed  all  the 
musicians  who  had  assembled  to  perform  before  the  Duke; 
he  was  Vjesides  one  of  the  best  improvisalori  in  verse  exist- 
ing at  that  time,  and  the  Duke,  enchanted  with  the  ad- 
mirable conversation  of  Leonardo,  was  so  charmed  by 
his  varied  gifts  that  he  delighted  beyond  measure  in  his 
society,  and  prevailed  on  him  to  paint  an  altar-piece,  the 
229 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

subject  of  which  was  the  Nativity  of  Christ,  which  was 
sent  by  the  Duke  as  a  present  to  the  Emperor.  For  the 
Dominican  monks  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie  at  Milan, 
he  also  painted  a  Last  Supper,  which  is  a  most  beautiful 
and  admirable  work;  to  the  heads  of  the  Apostles  in  this 
picture  the  master  gave  so  much  beauty  and  majesty  that 
he  was  constrained  to  leave  that  of  Christ  unfinished,  being 
convinced  that  he  could  not  impart  to  it  the  divinity  which 
should  distinguish  an  image  of  Christ.  The  whole  work 
indeed  is  executed  with  inexpressible  diligence  even  in  its 
most  minute  part,  among  other  things  may  be  mentioned 
the  table-cloth,  the  texture  of  which  is  copied  with  such 
exactitude,  that  the  linen-cloth  itself  could  scarcely  look 
more  real. 

It  is  related  that  the  Prior  of  the  Monastery  was  ex- 
cessively importunate  in  pressing  Leonardo  to  complete 
the  picture;  he  could  in  no  way  comprehend  wherefore 
the  artist  should  sometimes  remain  half  a  day  together 
absorbed  in  thought  before  his  work,  without  making  any 
progress  that  he  could  see;  this  seemed  to  him  a  strange 
waste  of  time,  and  he  would  fain  have  had  him  work  away 
as  he  could  make  the  men  do  who  were  digging  in  his 
garden,  never  laying  the  pencil  out  of  his  hand.  Not 
content  with  seeking  to  hasten  Leonardo,  the  Prior  even 
complained  to  the  Duke,  and  tormented  him  to  such  a 
degree  that  the  latter  was  at  length  compelled  to  send  for 
Leonardo,  whom  he  courteously  entreated  to  let  the  work 
be  finished,  assuring  him  nevertheless  that  he  did  so  be- 
cause impelled  by  the  importunities  of  the  Prior.  Leonardo, 
knowing  the  Prince  to  be  intelligent  and  judicious,  de- 
termined to  explain  himself  fully  on  the  subject  with  him, 
although  he  had  never  chosen  to  do  so  with  the  Prior. 
He  therefore  discoursed  with  him  at  some  length  respecting 
230 


Six  Painters 

art,  and  made  it  perfectly  manifest  to  his  comprehension 
that  men  of  genius  are  sometimes  producing  most  when 
they  seem  to  be  labouring  least,  their  minds  being  occupied 
in  invention,  and  in  the  completion  of  those  conceptions 
to  which  they  afterwards  give  form  and  expression  with 
the  hand.  He  further  informtd  the  Duke  that  there  were 
still  wanting  to  him  two  heads,  one  of  which,  that  of  Christ, 
he  could  not  hope  to  find  on  earth,  and  had  not  yet  attained 
the  power  of  presenting  it  to  himself  in  imagination,  with 
all  that  perfection  of  beauty  and  celestial  grace  demanded 
for  the  representation  of  Divinity  incarnate.  The  second 
head  still  wanting  was  that  of  Judas,  which  also  caused 
him  some  anxiety,  since  he  did  not  think  it  possible  to 
imagine  a  form  of  feature  that  should  properly  render  the 
countenance  of  a  man  who,  after  so  many  benefits  received 
from  his  master,  had  possessed  a  heart  so  depraved  as  to 
be  capable  of  betraying  his  Lord  and  the  Creator  of  the 
world;  with  regard  to  that  second,  however,  he  would 
make  search,  and,  after  all,  if  he  could  find  no  better,  there 
would  always  be  the  head  of  that  troublesome  and  im- 
pertinent Prior.  This  made  the  Duke  laugh  with  all  his 
heart;  he  declared  Leonardo  to  be  completely  in  the  right, 
and  the  poor  Prior,  in  confusion,  went  away  to  drive  on 
the  digging  in  his  garden,  and  left  Leonardo  in  peace.  .  .  . 
The  death  of  Leonardo  caused  great  sorrow  to  all  who 
had  known  him,  nor  was  there  ever  an  artist  who  did  more 
honour  to  the  art  of  painting.  The  radiance  of  his  coun- 
tenance, which  was  splendidly  beautiful,  brought  cheer- 
fulness to  the  heart  of  the  most  melancholy,  and  the  power 
of  his  word  could  move  the  most  obstinate  to  say,  "No," 
or  "Yes,"  as  he  desired.  He  possessed  so  great  a  degree 
of  physical  strength,  that  he  was  cajjable  of  restraining 
the  most  impetuous  violence,  and  was  able  U)  bend  one 
231 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

of  the  iron  rings  used  for  the  knockers  of  doors,  or  a  horse- 
shoe, as  if  it  were  lead ;  with  the  generous  hberality  of  his 
nature,  he  extended  shelter  and  hospitality  to  every  friend, 
rich  or  poor,  provided  only  that  he  were  distinguished  by 
talent  or  excellence;  the  poorest  and  most  insignificant 
abode  was  rendered  beautiful  and  honourable  by  his 
works;  and  as  the  city  of  Florence  received  a  great  gift 
in  the  birth  of  Leonardo,  so  did  it  suffer  a  more  than 
grievous  loss  at  his  death. 

Vasari 

Piero  di  Cosimo        '"^^        '^^        •^^^        ^^^        •'^^y 

BEYOND  all  doubt  Piero  di  Cosimo  has  given  evidence 
in  his  works  of  the  richest  and  most  varied  power 
of  invention,  with  indubitable  originality  and  a  certain 
subtlety  in  the  investigation  of  difficulties  which  have 
rarely  been  exceeded.  His  inquiries  into  the  more  re- 
condite properties  of  Nature,  in  her  external  forms,  were 
conducted  with  a  zeal  that  rendered  him  regardless  of  the 
amount  of  time  or  labour  bestowed  on  whatever  might 
be  the  matter  in  hand.  While  seeking  to  penetrate  the 
secrets  of  his  art,  no  effort  was  too  severe;  he  would  en- 
dure any  hardship  for  the  mere  love  which  he  bore  to  the 
pursuit,  and  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  an  advantage  for 
the  vocation  of  his  choice,  Piero  di  Cosimo  was  indeed 
so  earnestly  devoted  to  the  interests  of  art  as  to  become 
totally  regardless  of  himself  and  his  personal  convenience, 
insomuch  that  he  would  allow  himself  no  better  food  than 
hard  eggs,  and,  to  save  firing,  he  cooked  these  only  when 
he  had  prepared  a  fire  to  boil  his  glues,  varnishes,  etc.; 
nor  would  he  cook  them  even  thus  by  six  or  eight  at  a  time> 
but  boiled  them  by  fifties;  he  would  then  set  them  apart 
232 


Six  Painters 

in  a  basket,  and  ate  them  at  any  moment  when  he  felt  the 
necessity  for  food.  This  mode  of  existence  suited  him 
perfectly,  so  that  all  others  appeared  to  him  to  be  mere 
slavery  in  comparison  with  his  own.  He  was  much  dis- 
turbed by  the  cries  of  children,  the  sound  of  bells,  the 
singing  of  the  monks,  and  even  by  the  coughing  of  men. 
When  the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents,  he  delighted  to  see 
the  water  streaming  down  from  the  roofs  and  pour  splash- 
ing to  the  ground;  but  lightning  caused  him  excessive 
terror,  insomuch  that  he  would  shut  himself  up  when  he 
heard  thunder,  and,  fastening  the  window  and  door  of 
his  room,  would  wrap  his  head  in  his  cloak  and  crouch  in 
a  corner  until  the  storm  had  subsided.  Piero  di  Cosimo 
was  extremely  amusing  and  varied  in  conversation,  and 
would  sometimes  say  things  so  facetious  and  original 
that  his  hearers  would  be  ready  to  die  with  laughing; 
but  when  he  had  attained  to  old  age,  and  was  near  his 
eightieth  year,  he  became  so  strangely  capricious  that  no 
one  could  endure  to  be  with  him.  He  would  not  suffer 
even  his  scholars  to  be  about  him,  so  that  his  unsocial 
rudeness  of  manner  caused  him  to  be  destitute  of  all  aid 
in  the  helplessness  of  his  age.  He  would  sometimes  be 
seized  with  a  desire  to  get  to  his  work,  when,  his  palsied 
state  preventing  him,  he  would  fall  into  fits  of  rage,  and 
labour  to  force  his  trembling  hands  to  exertions  of  which 
they  were  no  longer  capable;  while  thus  raving  or  muttering, 
the  mahl-stick  would  drop  from  his  grasp,  or  even  the 
pencils  themselves  would  fall  from  his  fingers,  so  that  it 
was  pitiable  to  behold.  The  flies  on  the  wall  would  some- 
times arouse  him  to  anger,  nay,  even  the  very  shadows 
became  an  offence  to  him,  and  thus,  sickening  of  mere  old 
age,  the  few  friends  who  sliil  continued  to  visit  him  ex- 
horted the  dying  man  to  make  his  peace  with  God;    l)Ul 

233 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

he  put  them  off  from  day  to  day,  not  that  he  was  an  im- 
pious or  unbelieving  person;  he  was,  on  the  contrary,  a 
very  zealous  Christian,  though  of  so  rude  a  life,  but  he 
did  not  believe  himself  to  be  so  near  death  —  nay,  was 
convinced  to  the  contrary.  He  would  sometimes  discourse 
largely  of  the  torments  endured  by  those  who  die  of  lingering 
diseases,  and  remark  how  deplorably  they  must  suffer  who 
find  their  strength,  mental  and  bodily,  alike  gradually 
decaying,  and  see  themselves  to  be  dying  by  little  and  little, 
which  he  declared  must  needs  be  a  great  affliction;  he 
would  then  abuse  all  physicians,  apothecaries,  and  sick- 
nurses,  declaring  that  they  suffered  their  patients  to  die  of 
hunger;  next  he  would  expatiate  on  the  wretchedness  of 
having  to  swallow  syrups  or  potions  of  any  kind;  would 
enumerate  the  various  martyrdoms  endured  from  other 
curative  processes,  talk  of  the  cruelty  of  being  roused  up 
to  take  physic  when  a  man  would  rather  sleep  on,  the 
torment  of  having  to  make  a  will,  the  wretchedness  of 
seeing  kinsfolk  wailing  around  one,  and  the  misery  of 
being  shut  up  in  a  dark  room.  Of  death  by  the  hand  of 
justice,  on  the  contrary,  he  would  speak  in  terms  of  the 
highest  commendation.  It  must  be  such  a  fine  thing  to  be 
led  forth  to  one's  death  in  that  manner;  to  see  the  clear, 
bright,  open  air,  and  all  that  mass  of  people;  to  be  com- 
forted, moreover,  with  sugar-plums  and  kind  words;  to 
have  the  priests  and  the  people  all  praying  for  you  alone, 
and  to  enter  into  Paradise  with  the  angels.  He  considered 
the  man  who  departed  from  this  life  suddenly  to  have 
singular  good  fortune,  and  thus  would  he  dilate  in  a  manner 
the  most  extraordinary,  turning  everything  to  the  strangest 
significations  imaginable. 

Vasari 


234 


Six   Painters 

Luca  Signorelli          ^;:>        -v>        -ciy        -<;:n,        -<:> 

T^HE  excellent  painter,  Luca  Signorelli,  was,  in  his 
-*-  day,  most  highly  renowned  through  all  Italy,  and  his 
works  were  held  in  more  esteem  than  those  of  any  other 
master  have  been  at  any  time,  seeing  that  in  his  paintings 
he  showed  the  true  mode  of  depicting  the  nude  form,  and 
proved  that  it  can  be  made,  although  not  without  consum- 
mate art  and  much  difficulty,  to  appear  as  does  the  actual 
life.  Nor  am  I  surprised  that  the  works  of  Luca  were 
ever  highly  extolled  by  Michelagnolo,  or  that  for  his 
divine  work  of  the  Last  Judgment,  painted  in  the  chapel, 
he  should  have  courteously  availed  himself,  to  a  certain 
extent,  of  the  inventions  of  that  artist. 

It  is  related  of  Luca  Signorelli  that  he  had  a  son  killed 
in  Cortona,  a  youth  of  singular  beauty  in  face  and  person, 
whom  he  had  tenderly  loved.  In  his  deep  grief,  the 
father  caused  his  child  to  be  despoiled  of  his  clothing, 
and,  with  extraordinary  constancy  of  soul,  uttering  no 
complaint  and  shedding  no  tear,  he  painted  the  portrait 
of  his  dead  child,  to  the  end  that  he  might  still  have  the 
power  of  contemplating,  by  means  of  the  work  of  his  own 
hands,  that  which  nature  had  given  him,  but  which  an 
adverse  fortune  had  taken  away. 

Having  executed  works  for  almost  all  the  princes  of 
Italy,  and  having  become  old,  Luca  Signorelli  returned 
to  Cortona,  where,  in  his  last  years,  he  worked  for  his 
pleasure  rather  than  from  any  other  motive,  and  because, 
having  ever  been  accustomed  to  labour,  he  could  not 
prevail  on  himself  to  live  in  idleness.  In  this  his  old  age 
then  he  painted  a  picture  for  the  Nuns  of  Santa  Marghc- 
reta,  in  .Arezzo,  and  one  for  the  brotherhood  of  San  (Jiro- 
lamo,  the  last  being  partly  at  the  cost  of  Mcsser  Niccolo 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Gamurrini,  doctor  of  laws  and  auditor  of  the  Ruota,  whose 
portrait,  taken  from  the  life,  is  in  the  picture ;  he  is  kneeling 
before  the  Madonna,  to  whose  protection  he  is  recom- 
mended by  San  Niccolo,  who  is  also  depicted  in  the  same 
painting.  This  work  was  transported  from  Cortona  to 
Arezzo  by  the  members  of  that  brotherhood,  who  bore 
it  on  their  shoulders  from  the  first -named  city  to  the  last, 
when  Luca  also,  old  as  he  was,  determined  on  repairing 
to  Arezzo,  to  see  the  picture  in  its  place,  and  also  that  he 
might  visit  his  kindred  and  friends.  During  his  stay  in 
Arezzo  his  abode  was  in  the  "Casa  Vasari,"  where  I  was 
then  a  little  child  of  eight  years  old,  and  I  remember  that 
the  good  old  man,  who  was  exceedingly  courteous  and 
agreeable,  having  heard  from  the  master  who  was  teaching 
me  my  first  lessons  that  I  attended  to  nothing  in  school 
but  drawing  figures,  turned  round  to  Antonio,  my  father, 
and  said  to  him,  "Antonio,  let  Georgino  by  all  means 
learn  to  draw,  that  he  may  not  degenerate,  for  even  though 
he  should  hereafter  devote  himself  to  learning,  yet  the 
knowledge  of  design,  if  not  profitable,  cannot  fail  to  be 
honourable  and  advantageous."  Then  turning  to  me, 
who  was  standing  immediately  before  him,  he  said,  "Study 
well,  little  kinsman."  He  said  many  other  things  respect- 
ing me  which  I  refrain  from  repeating,  because  I  know  that 
I  have  been  far  from  justifying  the  opinion  which  that 
good  old  man  had  of  me.  Being  told  that  I  suffered,  as 
was  the  case  at  that  age,  so  severely  from  bleeding  at  the 
nose  as  sometimes  to  be  left  fainting  and  half-dead  thereby, 
he  bound  a  jasper  round  my  neck  with  his  own  hand,  and 
with  infinite  tenderness:  this  recollection  of  Luca  will 
never  depart  while  I  live.  Having  placed  his  picture  in 
its  destined  position,  Luca  returned  to  Cortona,  being 
accompanied  to  a  considerable  distance  on  his  road  by 
236 


Six  Painters 

many  of  the  citizens,  as  well  as  by  his  friends  and  relations, 
and  this  was  an  honour  well  merited  by  the  excellences  and 
endowments  of  this  master,  who  always  lived  rather  in  the 
manner  of  a  noble  and  a  gentleman  than  in  that  of  a  painter. 

When  the  Cardinal  of  Cortona  desired  to  have  a  picture 
from  the  hand  of  Luca,  the  latter,  although  very  old  and 
afflicted  with  palsy,  depicted  the  Baptism  of  Christ  by 
St.  John,  in  fresco,  on  the  wall  of  the  palace  chapel,  on  that 
side  namely  whereon  the  altar  stands;  but  he  could  not 
entirely  finish  it,  seeing  that  while  still  working  at  this 
picture  he  died,  having  attained  the  eighty-second  year  of 
his  age. 

Luca  Signorelli  was  a  man  of  the  most  upright  life, 

sincere  in  all  things,  affectionate  to  his  friends,  mild  and 

amiable  in  his  dealings  with  all,  most  especially  courteous 

to  every  one  who  desired  his  works,  and  very  efficient  as 

well  as  kind  in  the  instruction  of  his  disciples.     He  lived 

very  splendidly,  took  much  pleasure  in  clothing  himself 

in  handsome  vestments,  and  was  always  held  in  the  highest 

esteem  for  his  many  good  qualities,  both  in  his  own  country 

and  in  others. 

Vasari 

Old  Crome  ^::>        -"^i^,.        <:iy        5:^,        -;:i>.        '■o 

SEEK'ST  models?  to  Gainsborough  and  Hogarth 
turn,  not  names  of  the  world,  may  be,  but  English 
names  —  and  England  against  the  world !  A  living 
master?  why,  there  he  comes!  thou  hast  had  him  long, 
he  has  long  guided  thy  young  hand  towards  the  excel- 
lence which  is  yet  far  from  thee,  but  which  thou  canst 
attain  if  thou  shouldst  persist  and  wrestle,  even  as  he  has 
done,  'midst  gloom  and  despondency  —  ay,  and  even 
contempt;    he  who  now  comes  up  the  creaking  stair  to 

237 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

thy  little  studio  in  the  second  floor  to  inspect  thy  last  effort 
before  thou  departest,  the  little  stout  man  whose  face  is 
very  dark,  and  whose  eye  is  vivacious;  that  man  has 
attained  excellence,  destined  some  day  to  be  acknowledged, 
though  not  till  he  is  cold,  and  his  mortal  part  returned  to 
its  kindred  clay.  He  has  painted,  not  pictures  of  the  world, 
but  English  pictures,  such  as  Gainsborough  himself  might 
have  done;  beautiful  rural  pieces,  with  trees  which  might 
well  tempt  the  wild  birds  to  perch  upon  them :  thou  needest 
not  to  run  to  Rome,  brother,  where  lives  the  old  Mariolater, 
after  pictures  of  the  world,  whilst  at  home  there  are  pictures 
of  England;  nor  needest  thou  even  go  to  London,  the  big 
city,  in  search  of  a  Master,  for  thou  hast  one  at  home  in  the 
old  East  Anglian  town  who  can  instruct  thee  whilst  thou 
needest  instruction.  Better  stay  at  home,  brother,  at  least 
for  a  season,  and  toil  and  strive  'midst  groanings  and  de- 
spondency till  thou  hast  attained  excellence  even  as  he 
has  done  —  the  little  dark  man  with  the  brown  coat  and 
the  top  boots,  whose  name  will  one  day  be  considered  the 
chief  ornament  of  the  old  town,  and  whose  works  will 
at  no  distant  period  rank  among  the  proudest  pictures  of 
England  —  and  England  against  the  world !  —  thy  master, 
my  brother,  thy,  at  present,  all  too  little  considered  master 
—  Crome. 

George  Borrow 

Richard  Cosway       ^;i^        -^^^        -cy        -^Ci^        -q> 

/^^OSWAY  is  the  last  of  these  I  shall  mention.  At  that 
^-^  name  I  pause,  and  must  be  excused  if  I  consecrate 
to  him  a  petit  souvenir  in  my  best  manner;  for  he  was 
Fancy's  child.  What  a  fairy  palace  was  his  of  specimens 
of  art,  antiquarianism,  and  virtu,  jumbled  all  together  in 
238 


Six   Painters 

the  richest  disorder,  dusty,  shadowy,  obscure,  with  much 
left  to  the  imagination,   (how  different  from  the  finical, 
pohshed,  petty,  modernised  air  of  some  Collections  we  have 
seen!)  and  with  copies  of  the  old  masters,  craclced  and 
damaged,  which  he  touched  and  retouched  with  his  own 
hand,   and  yet  swore   they  were  the  genuine,   the  pure 
originals.     All   other   collectors   are    fools   to   him:     they 
go  about  with  painful  anxiety  to  find  out  the  realities:  — 
he  said  he  had  them  —  and  in  a  moment  made  them  of 
the  breath  of  his  nostrils  and  of  the  fumes  of  a  lively  im- 
agination.    His  was  the  crucifix  that  Abelard  prayed  to  — 
a  lock  of  Eloise's  hair  —  the  dagger  with  which  Felton 
stabbed    the    Duke   of   Buckingham  —  the   first   finished 
sketch   of  the   Jocunda  —  Titian's  large   colossal   profile 
of  Peter  Aretine  — a  mummy  of  an   Egyptian  king  —  a 
feather  of  a  phoenix  —  a  piece  of  Noah's  Ark.     Were  the 
articles   authentic?     What   matter?  —  his   faith   in   them 
was  true.     He  was  gifted  with  a  second-sight   in   such 
matters:    he    believed   whatever   was   incredible.     Fancy 
bore  sway  in  him ;  and  so  vivid  were  his  impressions,  that 
they   included   the  substances  of   things   in   them.     The 
agreeable  and  the  true  with  him  were  one.     He  believed 
in  Swedenborgianism  —  he  believed  in  animal  magnetism 
—  he  had  conversed  with  more  than  one  person  of   the 
Trinity  —  he  could  talk  with  his  lady  at  Mantua  through 
some  fine  vehicle  of  sense,  as  we  speak  to  a  servant  down- 
stairs through  a  conduit-pipe.     Richard  Cosway  was  not 
the  man  to  flinch  from  an   ideal  projjosilion.     Once,  at 
an  Academy  dinner,  when  some  ciuestion  was  made  whether 
the  story  of  Lambert's  Leap  was  true,  he  started  up,  and 
said  it  was;    for  he  was  the  person  that  performed  it:  — 
he  once  assured  me  that  the  knee-pan  of  King  James  L 
in  the  ceiling  at  Whitehall  was  nine  feet  across  (he  had 
2jy 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

measured  it  in  concert  with  Mr.  Cipriani,  who  was  re- 
pairing the  figures)  —  he  could  read  in  the  Book  of  the 
Revelations  without  spectacles,  and  foretold  the  return 
of  Buonaparte  from  Elba  ^  and  from  St.  Helena !  His 
wife,  the  most  lady-like  of  Englishwomen,  being  asked  in 
Paris  what  sort  of  a  man  her  husband  was,  made  answer 
—  "  Toujours  riant,  toujours  gai."  This  was  his  character. 
He  must  have  been  of  French  extraction.  His  soul  ap- 
peared to  possess  the  life  of  a  bird;  and  such  was  the 
jauntiness  of  his  air  and  manner,  that  to  see  him  sit  to 
have  his  half-boots  laced  on,  you  would  fancy  (by  the  help 
of  a  figure)  that,  instead  of  a  little  withered  elderly  gentle- 
man, it  was  Venus  attired  by  the  Graces.  His  miniatures 
and  whole-length  drawings  were  not  merely  fashionable  — 
they  were  fashion  itself.  His  imitations  of  Michael  Angelo 
were  not  the  thing.  When  more  than  ninety,  he  retired 
from  his  profession,  and  used  to  hold  up  the  palsied  hand 
that  had  painted  lords  and  ladies  for  upwards  of  sixty 
years,  and  smiled,  with  unabated  good-humour,  at  the 
vanity  of  human  wishes.  Take  him  with  all  his  faults 
and  follies,  we  scarce  "shall  look  upon  his  like  again!" 

W.  Hazlitt 

Corot  ^o       ^i>-       •^^        ^Qy        ^Qy        <::>        ^::> 

THAT  he  was  of  no  particular  importance  in  his  home 
we  have  plenty  of  evidence.  Emmanuel  Dammage 
tells  a  story  of  a  dinner  at  the  Barbizon  about  1867,  at 
which  both  he  and  Corot  were  present.  Corot  being  the 
oldest  guest  was  served  first,  and  received  the  wing  of  a 
chicken.  He  laughingly  disclaimed  his  right  to  this  "regal 
portion  and  regal  honour,"  saying  that  since  he  had 
abandoned  trade  (now  nearly  fifty  years  ago)  his  family 
240 


Six  Painters 

had  always  regarded  him  as  of  no  importance,  a  man  to  be 
served  last  and  with  a  "drum-stick."  "Give  me  that 
now,"  he  said,  "and  don't  start  me  with  bad  habits!" 

For  the  greater  part  of  his  life  the  world  treated  him  as  an 
artist  in  much  the  same  way  as  his  family  treated  him  as  a 
man;  but  with  regard  to  his  art  Corot  was  more  sensitive 
than  he  was  with  regard  to  his  personal  position,  and  there 
is  little  doubt  that  he  suffered  keenly  from  the  neglect  shown 
him  by  the  general  public,  the  picture-dealers,  and  those  in 
authority  at  I'lnstitut.  "Alas!  I  am  still  in  the  Cata- 
combs," he  used  to  exclaim  despairingly,  when  year  after 
year  saw  his  work  amongst  the  worst  hung  at  the  salons 
and  exhibitions.  But  once  back  in  his  studio,  surrounded 
by  the  work  which  he  loved  so  dearly,  his  sunny  nature  re- 
asserted itself  and  he  would  cry  —  "But  I  have  my  art  — 
that  remains!" 

His  attitude  towards  his  own  work  seems  to  have 
been  more  that  of  a  lover  than  of  a  critic.  He  thought 
humbly  of  himself,  wondering  that  any  one  should  care 
to  pay  so  much  as  10,000  francs  for  one  of  his  pictures, 
content  to  accept  the  judgment  of  his  parents,  who  placed 
the  engrav'er  of  one  of  his  works  above  the  artist  himself, 
rarely,  if  ever,  comparing  himself  with  other  artists,  and 
then  always  to  their  advantage.  "Rousseau?"  he  said. 
"Ah,  yes,  he  is  an  eagle,  and  I  —  I  am  a  lark,  who  sings 
sweet  songs  among  the  light  clouds  of  a  grey  day."  And 
when  the  world  took  him  at  his  own  valuation  and  passed 
him  by  we  find  no  sign  of  bitterness,  no  throwing  aside  of 
the  brush  in  despair,  only  a  severe  withdrawing  of  himself 
into  himself,  and  a  smiling  acceptance  of  the  verdict. 

Once  —  it  was  at  the  Salon  of  1851,  the  last  held  in 
the  Louvre  —  we  arc  told  Corot  deliberately  set  himself  to 
find  out  what  the  general  public  would  have  to  say  to  his 
R  241 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

work  could  their  attention  be  drawn  to  it.  He  had  a 
landscape  very  badly  hung  in  the  entrance-hall,  and 
most  persons  simply  passed  through  without  seeing  it  at  all. 
Knowing  that  people  are  like  sheep  —  where  one  goes 
another  follows  —  Corot  stopped  opposite  his  own  picture 
for  a  while  in  order  to  induce  others  to  look  at  it.  A 
young  couple  approached.  "It  seems  to  me  that  this  isn't 
bad,"  said  the  young  man;  "there's  something  in  it." 
"Oh,  come  along,"  said  his  companion,  "it's  frightful." 
"Tiens!"  said  Corot  to  himself,  for  he  was  fond  of  telling 
the  tale,  "it  serves  you  right  for  wishing  for  the  criticism  of 
the  public."  This  same  picture  afterwards  sold  for  12,000 
francs,  and  the  purchaser  was  so  pleased  at  becoming 
possessed  of  it  that  he  gave  a  fete  in  honour  of  the  event. 

Corot  was  not  the  man  to  force  his  work  or  his  own 
view  of  it  on  the  public:  he  gave  the  world  what  it  de- 
manded, and  what  was  rejected  he  kept  for  his  own 
pleasure.  Jean  Rousseau  tells  us  that,  going  one  day 
to  his  friend's  studio,  he  found  him  engaged  on  a  life- 
sized  portrait  of  a  woman.  "What  a  virile  and  supple 
painting  with  which  to  have  delighted  the  eyes  of  Velasquez 
or  Goya!"  he  cried.  "You  will  surely  let  the  world  see 
this?"  "Do  you  think  so?"  replied  Corot,  with  a  sigh; 
"when  it  will  not  even  pardon  me  my  smallest  figures !" 

But  "the  love  of  Art  is  not  a  sickness  from  which  one 
may  be  cured,  it  is  a  vocation,  unconsciously  listened  to 
and  irresistibly  obeyed."  And  this  was  how  it  appeared 
to  Corot.  "It  must  be  confessed,"  said  he  one  day," that 
if  painting  be  a  folly  it  is  a  sweet  one.  I  defy  any  one  to 
find  in  me  any  of  the  traces  of  the  cares,  ambitions,  or  re- 
morse that  ravage  the  features  of  so  many.  Ought  I  not, 
therefore,  to  love  the  occupation  which  gives  me  health, 
happiness,  and  content?" 

242 


Six  Painters 

Yet  for  all  his  enthusiasm,  Corot's  attitude  towards 
art  as  a  profession  was  always  one  of  practical  common 
sense.  Placed  himself  by  happy  circumstance  above 
the  necessity  for  turning  his  beloved  work  into  the  means  of 
supplying  his  daily  needs,  he  was  always  keen  on  saving 
others  from  the  possibility  of  having  thus  to  degrade  their 
art.  Many  aspirants  came  to  him  to  consult  upon  the 
advisability  of  taking  up  painting  as  a  career.  "Have 
you  fifteen  hundred  livres  de  rente,"  Corot  would  ask,  "to 
ensure  your  liberty  ?  Can  you  dine  oflf  a  hunk  of  bread  as  I 
have  done  many  a  time?  I  never  found  myself  any  the 
thinner  for  it  the  next  morning,  so  it  is  not  very  dangerous 
—  and  at  need  I  recommend  it."  If  the  aspirant  chanced 
to  be  the  son  of  wealthy  parents,  and  told  Corot  so,  he  would 
reply,  "So  much  the  better,  you  can  amuse  yourself  with 
painting." 

Simplicity  was  the  law  of  his  own  life.  For  years,  as 
we  have  seen,  he  pursued  his  art  under  the  greatest  diffi- 
culties as  to  outward  conveniences,  content,  in  Paris,  with 
the  smallest  of  studios,  and  when  living  at  Ville  d'Avray 
with  his  parents  never  even  attempting  to  have  a  studio  on 
the  spot,  but  laboriously  walking  to  and  fro  to  his  Paris 
"flat"  to  record  an  impression.  He  was  an  incessant 
worker,  arriving  at  his  studio  at  eight  a.m.,  and  working 
there  until,  as  he  said,  "lebon  Dicti  put  his  lamps  out"  at 
dusk.  His  midday  meal,  a  light  one,  was  taken  on  a  rick- 
ety table  in  the  corner  of  the  studio,  and  it  was  the  drawer 
of  this  table  which  served  him  in  later  years  as  a  bank  — 
a  bank  from  which  he  constantly  supplied  the  wants  of 
those  less  fortunate  than  himself.  Of  his  tender-hearted 
benevolence  endless  stories  are  told,  and  this  benevolence 
was  .so  well  known  that  it  was  often  imposed  upon.  He 
himself  tells  us  that  his  heart  felt  so  light  after  a  deed  of 

243 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

charity  that  his  work  "went  better,"  and  that  on  these 
occasions  he  would  sing  as  he  painted,  adding  words  to  his 
tune  somewhat  in  the  following  style:  "Here  we  place  a 
lit  —  tie  —  boy  —  la-la-la,  our  lit  —  tie  boy  requires  a  cap 
there  'tis —  there  'tis —  la-la  !"  and  so  on. 

Corot  had  lived  on  so  little  for  so  many  years  that  even 
when  he  grew  comparatively  rich  he  needed  no  money  for 
his  own  pleasures.  But  for  a  friend  in  need  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  spend  even  large  sums. 

Honore  Daumier  had  lived  for  years  at  Valmondois 
in  a  small  house,  which  he  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  purchase. 
Far  from  the  realisation  of  his  hope,  however,  there  came 
a  day  when  he  was  threatened  with  eviction.  Corot, 
hearing  of  the  matter,  hastened  to  the  spot,  bought  the 
property,  paying  cash  down  for  it,  and  gave  the  title-deeds 
to  his  friend.  "You  are  the  only  man  in  the  world,"  said 
Daumier,  with  emotion,  "from  whom  I  could  accept  such 
a  gift  without  a  blush." 

But  Daumier  was  not  the  only  well-known  name  with 
which  Corot's  generosity  is  connected.  Shortly  before  his 
death  he  was  engaged  in  a  large  pecuniary  transaction  with 
a  certain  dealer,  and  was  due  to  receive  some  thousands  of 
francs.  When  the  money  was  being  paid  over  to  him, 
Corot  placed  aside  10,000  francs,  and  returned  it  to  the 
dealer.  "Will  you  be  so  good,"  he  said,  "as  to  take  this 
and  pay  every  year  for  the  ne.xt  ten  years  a  pension  of  1000 
francs  to  Madame  Millet,  the  widow  of  my  friend  ?  "   .  .  . 

One  morning  a  dealer  had  come  to  pay  Corot  a  small  sum 
of  500  francs.  Whilst  they  were  talking,  a  woman  with 
two  children  came  in.  She  told  a  piteous  tale  of  the  illness 
of  her  husband,  a  model  —  they  had  no  money  and  were 
starving.  Corot  said  his  purse  was  at  home,  he  could  give 
her  nothing,  and  he  pushed  her  gently  towards  the  door. 

244 


Six  Painters 

Arrived  there,  he  pressed  into  her  hand  the  500  franc  note 
just  paid  him  by  the  dealer,  explaining  that  he  had  no 
change!  Another  anecdote  shows  us  how  great  was  his 
dislike  to  being  found  out  in  his  charitable  acts.  Some 
of  his  money  was  invested  in  house  property,  the  manage- 
ment of  which  was  entrusted  to  a  relative.  When  rents 
were  due  and  the  tenants  could  not  pay,  they  would  come 
direct  to  their  landlord,  complaining  that  the  manager  was 
hard-hearted.  "I  can't  listen  to  your  complaints,"  Corot 
would  say,  "but  here  is  the  money  to  pay  the  rent;  only 
whatever  you  do,  don't  say  where  it  came  from,  or  I  shall 
get  into  terrible  trouble ! " 

We  can  imagine  that  the  calls  on  such  generosity  were 
endless,  and  that  even  Corot's  patience  sometimes  failed. 
On  one  occasion  he  is  said  to  have  been  "out  of  humour," 
perhaps  from  too  great  a  demand  upon  his  kindness,  and 
to  have  denied  a  friend  who  asked  for  the  modest  sum  of 
5000  francs.  Scarcely,  however,  had  the  man  left  his 
studio  when  Corot  was  seized  with  remorse.  He  hurried 
to  the  famous  drawer,  took  out  a  roll  of  notes,  and  hastening 
to  his  friend's  studio,  heartily  abused  himself  and  his 
"niggardly  ways,"  and  pressed  on  his  friend  an  even  larger 
sum  than  he  had  been  asked  for.  .  .  . 

Of  Corot's  absorption  in  his  work  and  his  detachment 
from  the  affairs  of  the  world  around  him  there  are  many 
stories.  .  .  . 

Of  the  Coup  d'Etat  (December,  185 1)  he  only  became 
aware  two  months  after  it  had  taken  place,  and  when 
informed  of  it  by  a  friend  he  confessed  that  he  had  been 
so  busy  painting  that  he  had  not  opened  a  newspaper  for 
three  months.  Of  literature  the  artist  was  almost  as 
ignorant  as  of  politics.  It  is  .said  that  on  one  occasion, 
hearing  Victor  Hugo's  name  mentioned,  he  remarked,  "It 

24s 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

would  seem,  then,  that  Victor  Hugo  is  a  man  well  known 
in  literature."  He  used  occasionally  to  buy  books  at  the 
old  stalls  on  the  Quay,  but  it  was  for  their  shape  or  colour, 
not  for  their  literary  contents.  He  was  no  reader,  the  only 
work  he  was  ever  known  to  study  being  Corneille's  tragedy 
of  Polyeucte,  and  that  he  was  still  reading  at  the  end  of 
twenty  years.  As  each  year  came  by,  he  would  say,  "Now 
this  year  I  really  must  finish  Polyeucte" ;  but  he  never 
reached  the  end !  .  .  . 

In  the  words  of  Dupre:    "As  a  painter  we  might  re- 
place him  with  difficulty,  as  a  man  —  never." 

E.  Birnstingl  and  A.  Pollard 


246 


XVIII 
THE   POETS 

Thormod       "^^        ^^^        ''^        ^^^y        "siy        -^i,. 

TT  is  told  so,  that  when  the  battle  was  ended  Thormod 
■*-  walked  over  to  where  Day  and  his  men  had  taken 
their  stand  after  the  battle,  because  there  was  no  light  for 
fighting  because  of  the  night.  The  franklins  beset  Day  and 
his  men  so  that  they  should  not  get  away  by  night,  and  they 
meant  to  set  upon  them  as  soon  as  it  was  light.  Day  spake, 
"Is  there  any  man  in  my  company  that  can  make  a  plan  by 
which  we  may  get  away  whether  the  franklins  will  or  no,  for 
I  know  that  they  will  set  upon  us  as  soon  as  it  is  light  if  we 
bide  here?"  There  was  no  man  that  made  answer  to  his 
speech,  and  when  Thormod  saw  that  there  was  no  counsel 
to  be  got  of  them,  then  he  spake.  "Why  should  not  a  plan 
be  found  for  this?"  says  he.  Day  asked,  "Who  is  the 
man  that  speaks  so  valiantly?"  He  answers,  "His  name 
is  Thormod."  Day  spake,  "Art  thou  Thormod  Coalbrow's 
poet?"  "That  self-same  man,"  says  Thormod.  Spake 
Day,  "What  plan  is  it  that  thou  seest  by  which  we  may  get 
away  with  our  company?"  Thormod  answers,  "Ye  shall 
cut  down  timber  and  make  great  fires  of  the  brush  and  carry 
the  stumps,  as  many  as  may  be  in  front  of  the  fires,  and  there 
247 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

shall  be  four  men  by  each  fire,  and  three  shall  keep  walking 
about  the  fire,  but  one  shall  feed  the  fire.  And  when  ye 
have  done  thus  for  some  time,  then  slake  all  the  fires  at 
once,  and  then  go  your  ways  and  make  no  stay  neither  to- 
day nor  to-morrow,  but  the  franklins  will  think  that  there 
must  be  come  a  mort  of  men  when  they  see  it  all  alive  by 
the  fires.  .  .  .  But  when  it  is  morning,  then  they  will  see 
the  trick,  and  I  think  it  likely  that  they  will  fare  after  you, 
but  by  that  time  there  will  be  so  great  a  distance  between 
you  that  I  think  it  will  be  of  no  use."  Spake  Day,  "Art 
thou  wounded  at  all,  Thormod?"  He  answers,  "Far 
from  it."  Spake  Day,  "Then  do  thou  come  eastward  to 
Sweden  with  me,  and  I  will  treat  thee  well  there,  and  thou 
hast  no  kind  of  good  to  look  for  here."  Thormod  answers, 
"It  can  never  be  fated  for  me  to  serve  another  king  now 
that  king  Olave  is  fallen."  Then  Thormod  turned  away, 
but  Day  and  his  men  took  the  plan  he  had  told  them  of, 
and  so  got  away.  .  .  . 

Now  it  must  be  told  of  Thormod  that  he  took  it  much 
to  heart  that  he  was  but  lightly  wounded,  and  he  grieved 
greatly  over  it  and  believed  he  could  tell  that  he  could  not 
be  worthy  by  reason  of  his  sins  to  fall  with  the  king. 
And  now  he  prays  to  king  Olaf  with  a  good  will  that  he 
would  look  upon  him.  Then  he  spake  by  himself  and 
said,  "Dost  not  thou,  holy  king  Olave,  mean  to  bring  that 
about  for  me  which  thou  didst  promise  me,  that  thou  wouldst 
not  cast  me  off  [lit.  cast  me  to  the  winds]  if  thy  will  was  to 
stand."  And  with  that  he  heard  a  string  twang,  and  an 
arrow  was  shot,  and  it  struck  Thormod  under  the  left  arm 
into  the  inwards.  He  was  mighty  well  pleased  with  this 
wound,  and  spake,  "I  think  that  this  man  has  drawn  his 
bow  with  the  best  of  luck,  and  I  know  now  that  that  shall 
come  about  that  was  to  be."  Thormod  walked  over  to 
248 


The  Poets 

where  the  king's  body  was,  and  sat  him  down  and  broke  the 
shaft  off  the  arrow. 

Thormod  heard  a  man  calling  among  the  fallen  in  the 
franklins'  company,  "Is  there  any  man  among  the  fallen 
that  can  crack  a  jest  or  a  joke?  I  was  never  an}'where 
before  where  folks  were  so  lacking  in  spirit.  I  know  that 
many  a  man  can  speak  cheerily  though  he  be  wounded." 
Then  a  man  answered  him,  "Right  ill  have  ye  fared  by  ill 
counsel  to-day,  but  ye  heed  it  not,  yea,  though  ye  are  lying 
on  theverge  of  hell  or  death."  "  Who  is  it  that  answers  me  ?  " 
says  he.  "Thou  mayst  call  me  Heming;  but  who  art 
thou?"  "Hearrande  is  my  name,  and  I  remember  that  I 
had  a  son  whose  name  was  Fleming,  and  he  went  to  Jerusa- 
lem; I  loved  him  very  dearly."  "But  there  can  be  no  man 
less  happy  over  his  father  than  I  am,"  quoth  Heming;  "ye 
have  behaved  far  too  ill  towards  the  king."  "We  have  not 
followed  good  counsel,"  quoth  Hearrande,  "but  I  would 
like  thee  to  come  hither,  and  that  we  make  peace  together." 
Spake  Heming,  "I  will  not  tread  in  the  blood  of  you  frank- 
lins, but  do  thou  rather  come  hither  and  so  die,  if  needs 
must,  in  the  blood  of  the  king's  men,  and  that  will  be  some 
sort  of  consecration  to  thee."  Answers  Hearrande,  "I 
would  like  to  know  what  thy  hurt  is;  I  think  I  can  tell 
thereby  what  sort  of  man  thou  art."  He  answers,  "I  am 
standing  on  my  knees  among  the  fallen,  for  the  slain  have 
fallen  so  thick  about  me  that  I  cannot  fall  down,  but  half  my 
guts  are  in  the  gras.s,  and  what  is  thy  hurt,  father?" 
Hearrande  spake,  "There  is  a  spear  through  me."  Thor- 
mod perceived  that  Hearrande  crawled  toward  Heming, 
and  then  died  there. 

Now  Thormod's  wound  began  to  give  him  much  dis- 
comfort, as  was  to  be  looked  for:  then  he  walked  up  to 
the  houses,  towards  a  barlcy-barn  wherein  king  Olaf's 
249 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

men  that  were  wounded  had  been  carried.  Thormod 
had  his  naked  sword  in  his  hand,  and  as  he  walked  in 
there  came  a  man  out  meeting  him.  Thormod  asked  him 
his  name,  and  he  said  he  was  called  Cimbe.  Thormod 
asked,  "Wast  thou  in  the  battle?"  "I  was,"  says  he, 
"with  the  franklins  that  got  the  best  of  it."  "Art  thou  at 
all  wounded?"  says  Thormod.  "Barely,"  says  Cimbe, 
"and  wast  thou  in  the  battle  at  all?"  Thormod  answers, 
"I  was  with  them  that  got  the  best  of  it."  Cimbe  saw  that 
Thormod  had  a  gold  ring  on  his  arm,  and  spake,  "Thou 
must  be  a  king's  man ;  give  me  the  gold  ring  and  I  will  hide 
thee.  The  farmers  will  pay  thee  for  thy  rebellion  if  thou 
come  in  their  way;  but  art  thou  wounded  at  all?"  Thor- 
mod answers,  "I  am  not  so  wounded  that  I  need  a  leech, 
and  take  the  ring  if  thou  wilt ;  I  have  lost  more  now  than 
that  I  should  take  as  much  pleasure  in  a  gold  ring  as  I  did 
before."  Cimbe  stretched  forth  his  hand,  wishing  to  take 
the  ring.  Thormod  made  a  sweep  with  his  sword,  and  cut 
of  Cimbe's  hand,  and  declared  that  he  should  not  steal  with 
that  hand  any  more.  .  .  .  [Cimbe  bore  his  wound  ill. 
Thormod  said  he  should  try  how  wounds  should  be  borne.] 
Then  Cimbe  went  away,  but  Thormod  stood  where  he 
was. 

Then  there  came  a  man  running  out  of  the  barn  to  fetch 
wood  for  fuel,  and  a  woman  was  warming  water  in  a  kettle 
for  cleaning  men's  wounds.  Thormod  walked  up  to  a 
wall-post  and  leaned  against  it.  Then  the  woman  spake 
to  Thormod,  "Who  art  thou?  Art  thou  a  king's  man, 
or  art  thou  one  of  the  franklins'  company?"  Thormod 
answered,  and  quoth  the  verse  — 

It  can  be  seen  that  we  were  with  Olave: 

I  got  a  wound  and  little  quarter. 

The  archers  have  nearly  done  for  the  left-handed  poet. 

250 


The   Poets 

The  woman  spake,  "Why  wilt  thou  not  have  thy  wound 
bound  up  if  thou  art  badly  wounded?"  Thormod  an- 
swers, "I  have  no  wound  that  needs  binding."  The 
woman  spake,  "Thou  wilt  be  able  to  tell  me  what  we  have 
long  talked  over  this  evening,  who  it  was  that  bore  himself 
best  and  foremost  in  the  battle  and  cared  least  about 
defending  himself."     Then  Thormod  quoth  the  verse  — 

Proud  was  Olave's  heart  at  Stickle-stead; 

I  saw  all  men  try  to  cover  themselves,  save  the  king  only. 

The  woman  spake,  "Who  bore  himself  best  on  the 
king's  side?"     Thormod  quoth  the  verse  — 

I  saw  Harold  defending  himself  well  beside  Olave; 

Ring  and  Day  went  up  to  the  moot  of  hard  swords; 

They  stood  gallantly  under  their  red  shields,  the  four  princes. 

The  woman  spake,  "Why  art  thou  so  wan?".  .  . 
Then  Thormod  quoth  the  verse  — 

I  am  neither  red  nor  ruddy,  lady; 
No  one  cares  for  me,  a  wounded  man. 
The  deep  traces  of  the  Danish  weapons 
And  of  Day's  storm   .   .   . 

And  when  he  had  quethed  this,  he  died  standing  against 
the  wall-post,  and  he  did  not  fall  to  the  ground  till  he  was 
dead. 

King  Harold  Sigurdson  filled  up  the  verse  that  Thor- 
mod had  made.  "Of  Day's  Storm  smart,"  said  he,  "that 
is  what  the  poet  must  have  meant  to  say." 

Origines  Islandkae 


251 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 
Shelley  •<;>       ■<;i,'       ^^       ^;>       ^^       ^ri'       ^^ 


THERE  was  a  pond  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  before  ascend- 
ing it,  and  on  the  left  of  the  road;  it  was  formed  by 
the  water  which  had  filled  an  old  quarry:  whenever  he 
was  permitted  to  shape  his  course  as  he  would,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  edge  of  this  pool,  although  the  scene  had  no 
other  attractions  than  a  certain  wildness  and  barrenness. 
Here  he  would  linger  until  dusk,  gazing  in  silence  on  the 
water,  repeating  verses  aloud,  or  earnestly  discussing  themes 
that  had  no  connection  with  surrounding  objects.  Some- 
times he  would  raise  a  stone  as  large  as  he  could  lift,  deliber- 
ately throw  it  into  the  water  as  far  as  his  strength  enabled 
him;  then  he  would  loudly  exult  at  the  splash,  and  would 
quietly  watch  the  decreasing  agitation,  until  the  last  faint 
ring  and  almost  impercepfible  ripple  disappeared  on  the 
still  surface.  "Such  are  the  effects  of  an  impulse  on  the 
air,"  he  would  say;  and  he  complained  of  our  ignorance  of 
the  theory  of  sound  —  that  the  subject  was  obscure  and 
mysterious,  and  many  of  the  phenomena  were  contradictory 
and  inexplicable.  He  asserted  that  the  science  of  acoustics 
ought  to  be  cultivated,  and  that  by  well  devised  experiments 
valuable  discoveries  would  undoubtedly  be  made;  and 
he  related  many  remarkable  stories,  connected  with  the 
subject  which  he  had  heard  or  read.  Sometimes,  he  would 
busy  himself  in  splitting  the  slaty  stones,  in  selecting  thin 
and  flat  pieces,  and  in  giving  them  a  round  form ;  and  when 
he  had  collected  a  sufficient  number,  he  would  gravely 
make  ducks  and  drakes  with  them,  counting,  with  the  ut- 
most glee,  the  number  of  bounds,  as  they  flew  along  skim- 
ming the  surface  of  the  pond.  He  was  a  devoted  worship - 
252 


The  Poets 

per  of  the  water-nymphs;  for  whenever  he  found  a  pool,  or 
even  a  small  puddle,  he  would  loiter  near  it,  and  it  was  no 
easy  task  to  get  him  to  quit  it.  He  had  not  yet  learned  that 
art,  from  which  he  afterwards  derived  so  much  pleasure  — 
the  construction  of  paper  boats.  He  twisted  a  morsel  of 
paper  into  a  form  that  a  lively  fancy  might  consider  a  like- 
ness of  a  boat,  and  committing  it  to  the  water,  he  anxiously 
watched  the  fortunes  of  the  frail  bark,  which,  if  it  was  not 
soon  swamped  by  the  faint  winds  and  miniature  waves, 
gradually  imbibed  water  through  its  porous  sides  and  sank. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  fairy  vessel  performed  its  little 
voyage,  and  reached  the  opposite  shore  of  the  puny  ocean 
in  safety.  It  is  astonishing  with  what  keen  delight  he 
engaged  in  this  singular  pursuit.  It  was  not  easy  for  an 
uninitiated  spectator  to  bear  with  tolerable  patience  the 
vast  delay,  on  the  brink  of  a  wretched  pond  upon  a  bleak 
common,  and  in  the  face  of  a  cutting  northeast  wind,  on 
returning  to  dinner  from  a  long  walk  at  sunset  on  a  cold 
winter's  day;  nor  was  it  easy  to  be  so  harsh  as  to  interfere 
with  a  harmless  gratification,  that  was  evidently  exquisite. 
It  was  not  easy,  at  least,  to  induce  the  shipbuilder  to  desist 
from  launching  his  tiny  fleets,  so  long  as  any  timber  re- 
mained in  the  dockyard.  I  prevailed  once,  and  once  only; 
it  was  one  of  those  bitter  Sundays  that  commonly  receive 
the  new  year;  the  sun  had  set,  and  it  had  almost  begun  to 
snow.  I  had  exhorted  him  long  in  vain,  with  the  eloquence 
of  a  fro/x-n  and  famished  man,  to  proceed;  at  last,  I  said 
in  despair  —  allufjing  to  his  never  ending  creations,  for  a 
paper-navy  that  was  to  be  set  afloat  simultaneously  lay  at 
his  feet,  and  he  was  busily  constructing  more,  with  blue 
and  swollen  hands — "Shelley,  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to 
you;  you  are  the  Demiurgus  of  Plato!"  Me  instantly 
caught   up   the  whole   flotilla,   and   bounding    homeward 

253 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

with  mighty  strides,  laughed  aloud,  laughed  like  a  giant, 
as  he  used  to  say.  So  long  as  his  paper  lasted,  he  remained 
riveted  to  the  spot,  fascinated  by  this  peculiar  amusement ; 
all  waste  paper  was  rapidly  consumed,  then  the  covers  of 
letters,  next  letters  of  little  value:  the  most  precious  contri- 
butions of  the  most  esteemed  correspondent,  although  eyed 
wistfully  many  times,  and  often  returned  to  the  pocket, 
were  sure  to  be  sent  at  last  in  pursuit  of  the  former  squad- 
rons. Of  the  portable  volumes  which  were  the  companions 
of  his  rambles,  and  he  seldom  went  out  without  a  book, 
the  fly  leaves  were  commonly  wanting  —  he  had  applied 
them  as  our  ancestor  Noah  applied  Gopher  wood;  but 
learning  was  so  sacred  in  his  eyes,  that  he  never  trespassed 
farther  upon  the  integrity  of  the  copy;  the  work  itself  was 
always  respected.  It  has  been  said,  that  he  once  found 
himself  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Serpentine  river  without 
the  materials  for  indulging  those  inclinations,  which  the 
sight  of  water  invariably  inspired,  for  he  had  exhausted 
his  supplies  on  the  round  pond  in  Kensington  Gardens. 
Not  a  single  scrap  of  paper  could  be  found,  save  only  a 
bank-post  bill  for  fifty  pounds;  he  hesitated  long  but 
yielded  at  last;  he  twisted  it  into  a  boat  with  the  extreme 
refinement  of  his  skill,  and  committed  it  with  the  utmost 
dexterity  to  fortune,  watching  its  progress,  if  possible, 
with  a  still  more  intense  anxiety  than  usual.  Fortune  often 
favours  those  who  frankly  and  fully  trust  her;  the  north- 
east wind  gently  wafted  the  costly  skiff  to  the  south  bank, 
where,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  voyage,  the  venturous 
owner  had  waited  its  arrival  with  patient  solitude. 


254 


The  Poets 
II 

SHELLEY  also  was  always  reading;  at  his  meals  a 
book  lay  by  his  side,  on  the  table,  open.  Tea  and 
toast  were  often  neglected,  his  author  seldom;  his  mutton 
and  potatoes  might  grow  cold ;  his  interest  in  a  work  never 
cooled.  He  invariably  sallied  forth,  book  in  hand,  reading 
to  himself,  if  he  was  alone,  if  he  had  a  companion  reading 
aloud.  He  took  a  volume  to  bed  with  him,  and  read  as 
long  as  his  candle  lasted ;  he  then  slept  —  impatiently  no 
doubt  —  until  it  was  light,  and  he  recommenced  reading 
at  the  early  dawn. 

One  day  we  were  walking  together,  arm-in-arm,  under 
the  gate  of  the  Middle  Temple,  in  Fleet  Street;  Shelley, 
with  open  book,  was  reading  aloud ;  a  man  with  an  apron 
said  to  a  brother  operative,  "See,  there  are  two  of  your 
damnation  lawyers;  they  are  always  reading!"  The 
tolerant  Philosopher  did  not  choose  to  be  reminded  that 
he  had  once  been  taken  for  a  lawyer ;  he  declared  the  fellow 
was  an  ignorant  wretch !  He  was  loth  to  leave  his  books 
to  go  to  bed,  and  frequently  sat  up  late  reading ;  sometimes 
indeed  he  remained  at  his  studies  all  night.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  great  watching,  and  of  almost  incessant 
reading,  he  would  often  fall  asleep  in  the  day-time  — 
dropping  off  in  a  moment  —  like  an  infant.  He  often 
quietly  transferred  himself  from  his  chair  to  the  floor,  and 
slept  soundly  on  the  carpet,  and  in  the  winter  upon  the 
rug,  basking  in  the  warmth  like  a  cat ;  and  like  a  cat  his 
little  round  head  was  roasted  before  a  blazing  fire.  If  any 
one  humanely  covered  the  poor  head  to  shield  it  from  the 
heat,  the  covering  was  impatiently  put  aside  in  his  sleep. 
"You  make  your  brains  boil,  Bysshe.  I  have  seen  and 
heard  the  steam  rushing  out  violently  at  your  nostrils  and 
ears!" 

255 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Southey  was  addicted  to  reading  his  terrible  epics  — 
before  they  were  printed  —  to  any  one,  who  seemed  to  be 
a  fit  subject  for  the  cruel  experiment.  He  soon  set  his 
eyes  on  the  new-comer,  and  one  day  having  effected  the 
capture  of  Shelley  he  immediately  lodged  him  securely  in 
a  little  study  upstairs,  carefully  locking  the  door  upon  him- 
self and  his  prisoner  and  putting  the  key  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  There  was  a  window  in  the  room,  it  is  true,  but 
it  was  so  high  above  the  ground  that  Baron  French  him- 
self would  not  have  attempted  it.  "Now  you  shall  be 
delighted,"  Southey  said;  "but  sit  down."  Poor  Bysshe 
sighed,  and  took  his  seat  at  the  table.  The  author  seated 
himself  opposite,  and  placing  his  MS.  on  the  table  before 
him,  began  to  read  slowly  and  distinctly.  The  poem,  if  I 
mistake  not,  was  "The  Curse  of  Kehamah."  Charmed 
with  his  own  composition  the  admiring  author  read  on, 
varying  his  voice  occasionally,  to  point  out  the  finer  pass- 
ages and  invite  applause.  There  was  no  commendation; 
no  criticism ;  all  was  hushed.  This  was  strange.  Southey 
raised  his  eyes  from  the  neatly  written  MS.  Shelley  had 
disappeared.  This  was  still  more  strange.  Escape  was 
impossible;  every  precaution  had  been  taken,  yet  he  had 
vanished.  Shelley  had  glided  noiselessly  from  his  chair 
to  the  floor,  and  the  insensible  young  Vandal  lay  buried  in 
profound  sleep  underneath  the  table.  No  wonder  the  in- 
dignant and  injured  bard  afterwards  enrolled  the  sleeper 
as  a  member  of  the  Satanic  school  and  inscribed  his  name, 
together  with  that  of  Byron,  on  a  gibbet !  I  have  been  told 
on  his  own  authority,  that  wherever  Southey  passed  the 
night  in  travelling,  he  bought  some  book,  if  it  were  possible 
to  pick  one  up  on  a  stall,  or  in  a  shop,  and  wrote  his  own 
name  and  the  name  of  the  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  title- 
page,  and  the  date  including  the  day  of  the  week.  This  in- 
256 


The  Poets 

scription,  he  found,  served  in  some  measure  the  purpose 
of  a  journal,  for  when  he  looked  at  such  a  date  it  reminded 
him,  through  the  association  of  ideas,  of  many  particulars 
of  his  journey.  I  have  a  small  volume  in  the  German  lan- 
guage, thus  inscribed  by  Southey,  at  the  foot  of  the  title- 
page  ;  the  place  is  some  town  in  France. 

Bysshe  chanced  to  call,  one  afternoon,  during  his  resi- 
dence at  Keswick,  on  his  new  acquaintance,  a  man  emi- 
nent, and  of  rare  epic  fertility.  It  was  at  four  o'clock; 
Southey  and  his  wife  were  sitting  together  at  their  tea  after 
an  early  dinner,  for  it  was  washing-day.  A  cup  of  tea  was 
ofifered,  which  was  accepted,  and  a  plate  piled  high  with 
tea-cakes  was  handed  to  the  illustrious  visitor ;  of  these  he 
refused  to  partake  with  signs  of  strong  aversion.  He 
was  always  abstemious  in  his  diet,  at  this  period  of  his  life 
peculiarly  so;  a  thick  hunch  of  dry  bread,  possibly  a  slice 
of  brown  bread  and  butter,  might  have  been  welcome  to  the 
Spartan  youth;  but  hot  tea-cakes  heaped  up,  in  a  scanda- 
lous profusion,  well  buttered,  blushing  with  currants  or 
sprinkled  thickly  with  carraway  seeds,  and  reeking  with 
allspice,  shocked  him  grievously.  It  was  a  Persian  appara- 
tus, which  he  detested  —  a  display  of  excessive  and  un- 
manly luxury  by  which  the  most  powerful  empires  have  been 
overthrown,  that  threatened  destruction  to  all  social  order, 
and  would  have  rendered  abortive  even  the  divine  Plato's 
scheme  of  a  frugal  and  perfect  republic. 

A  poet's  dinner  is  never  a  very  heavy  meal ;  on  a  washing- 
(liy,  we  may  readily  believe  that  it  is  as  light  as  his'  own 
fancy.  So  far  in  the  day  Southey,  no  doubt,  had  fared 
sparingly;  he  was  a  hale,  healthy,  hearty  man,  breathing 
the  keen  mountain  air,  and  working  hard,  too  hard,  poor 
fellow ;  he  was  hungry  and  difl  not  shrink  from  the  tca-cakcs 
which  had  been  furnished  to  make  up  for  his  scanty  midday 
5  257 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

repast.  Shelley  watched  his  unworthy  proceedings,  eyeing 
him  with  pain  and  pity.  Southey  had  not  noticed  his  dis- 
tress, but  he  held  his  way,  clearing  the  plates  of  buttered 
currant-cakes,  and  buttered  seed-cakes,  with  an  equal 
relish.  "Why!  Good  God,  Southey!"  Bysshe  suddenly 
exclaimed,  for  he  could  no  longer  contain  his  boiling 
indignation.  "I  am  ashamed  of  you!  It  is  awful, 
horrible,  to  see  such  a  man  as  you  are  greedily  devouring 
this  nasty  stuff!"  "Nasty  stuff,  indeed!  How  dare  you 
call  my  tea-cakes  nasty  stuff,  sir?"  Mrs.  Southey  was 
charming,  but  it  is  credibly  reported  that  she  was  also 
rather  sharp. 

"Nasty  stuff!  What  right  have  you,  pray,  Mr.  Shelley, 
to  come  into  my  house,  and  to  tell  me  to  my  face  that  my 
tea-cakes,  which  I  made  myself,  are  nasty,  and  to  blame 
my  husband  for  eating  them?  How  in  the  world  can 
they  be  nasty?  I  washed  my  hands  well  before  I  made 
them,  and  I  sprinkled  them  with  flour.  The  board  and  the 
rolling-pin  were  quite  clean;  they  had  been  well  scraped 
and  sprinkled  with  flour.  The  flour  was  taken  out  of  the 
meal-tub,  which  is  always  kept  locked;  here  is  the  key! 
There  was  nothing  nasty  in  the  ingredients,  I  am  sure; 
we  have  a  very  good  grocer  in  Keswick.  Do  you  suppose, 
I  would  put  anything  nasty  into  them?  What  right 
have  you  to  call  them  nasty !  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  and  not  Mr.  Southey;  he  surely  has  a  right  to  eat 
what  his  wife  puts  before  him  I  Nasty  stuff !  I  like  your 
impertinence ! " 

In  the  course  of  this  animated  invective,  Bysshe  put  his 
face  close  to  the  plate,  and  curiously  scanned  the  cakes. 
He  then  took  up  a  piece  and  ventured  to  taste  it,  and  finding 
it  very  good,  he  began  to  eat  as  greedily  as  Southey  him- 
self. The  servant,  a  neat,  stout,  little,  ruddy  Cumberland 
258 


The  Poets 

girl,  with  a  very  white  apron,  brought  in  a  fresh  supply, 
these  also  the  brother  philosopher  soon  dispatched,  eating 
one  against  the  other  in  generous  rivalry.  Shelley  then 
asked  for  more,  but  no  more  were  to  be  had;  the  whole 
batch  had  been  consumed.  The  lovely  Edith  was  pacified 
on  seeing  that  her  cakes  were  relished  by  the  two  hungry 
poets,  and  she  expressed  her  regret  that  she  did  not  know 
Mr.  Shelley  was  coming  to  take  tea  with  her,  or  she  would 
have  made  a  larger  provision.  Harriet,  who  told  me  the 
tale,  added:  "We  were  to  have  hot  tea-cake  every  evening 
'for  ever.'  I  was  to  make  them  myself,  and  Mrs.  Southey 
was  to  teach  me." 

The  Divine  poet,  like  many  other  wiser  men,  used  to 
pass  very  readily  and  suddenly  from  one  extreme  to  the 
other.  I  myself  witnessed,  some  years  later,  a  like  rapid 
transition.  When  he  resided  at  Bishopsgate,  I  usually 
walked  down  from  London,  and  spent  Sunday  with  him. 
One  frosty  Saturday,  in  the  middle  of  the  winter,  being 
overcome  by  hunger,  I  halted  by  the  way  —  it  was  a  rare 
occurrence  —  for  refreshment,  at  a  humble  inn  on  Houns- 
low  Heath.  I  had  just  taken  my  seat  on  a  Windsor 
chair,  at  a  small  round  beechen  table  in  a  little  dark  room 
with  a  well-sanded  floor,  when  I  saw  Bysshe  striding  past 
the  window.  He  was  coming  to  meet  me;  I  went  to  the 
door  and  hailed  him. 

"Come  along!  It  is  dusk;  tea  will  be  ready;  we 
shall  be  late!"  "No!  I  must  have  something  to  eat  first; 
come  in!"  He  walked  about  the  room  impatiently. 
"When  will  your  dinner  be  ready?  what  have  you  ordered  ?  " 
"I  asked  for  eggs  and  bacon,  but  they  have  no  eggs;  I  am 
to  have  some  fried  bacon."  He  was  struck  with  horror, 
and  his  agony  was  increased  at  the  ap{)earance  of  my  dinner. 
Bacon  was  proscribed  by  him ;  it  was  gross  and  abominable. 
259 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

It  distressed  him  greatly  at  first  to  see  me  eat  the  bacon; 
but  he  gradually  approached  the  dish,  and,  studying  the 
bacon  attentively,  said,  "So  this  is  bacon!"  He  then  ate 
a  small  piece.  "It  is  not  so  bad  either!"  More  was  or- 
dered; he  devoured  it  voraciously.  "Bring  more  bacon  !" 
It  was  brought,  and  eaten.  "Let  us  have  another  plate." 
"I  am  very  sorry,  gentlemen,"  said  the  old  woman,  "but 
indeed  I  have  no  more  in  the  house."  The  Poet  was  angry 
at  the  disappointment,  and  rated  her.  "What  business 
has  a  woman  to  keep  an  inn,  who  has  not  enough  bacon  in 
the  house  for  her  guests  ?     She  ought  to  be  killed ! " 

"  Really,  Gentlemen,  I  am  very  sorry  to  be  out  of 
bacon ;  but  I  only  keep  by  me  as  much  as  I  think  will  be 
wanted.  I  can  easily  get  more  from  Staines;  they  have 
very  good  bacon  always  in  Staines ! "  "  As  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  had,  come  along,  Bysshe;  let  us  go 
home  to  tea!  "  "  No!  Not  yet;  she  is  going  to  Staines, 
to  get  us  some  more  bacon." 

"She  cannot  go  to-night;    come  along." 

He  departed  with  reluctance,  grumbling  as  we  walked 
homewards  at  the  scanty  store  of  bacon,  lately  condemned 
as  gross  and  abominable.  The  dainty  rustic  food  made 
a  strong  impression  upon  his  lively  fancy,  for  when  we 
arrived  the  first  words  he  uttered  were,  "We  have  been 
eating  bacon  together  on  Hounslow  Heath,  and  do  you 
know  it  was  very  nice.  Cannot  we  have  bacon  here, 
Mary?" 

"Yes,  you  can,  if  you  please;  but  not  to-night.  Here 
is  your  tea;    take  that!" 

"I  had  rather  have  some  more  bacon !"  sighed  the  Poet. 

T.  J.  Hogg 


260 


The  Poets 


III 


LET  me  return  to  Shelley.  Innocent  and  careless  as 
a  boy,  he  possessed  all  the  delicate  feelings  of  a  gentle- 
man, all  the  discrimination  of  a  scholar,  and  united,  in 
just  degrees,  the  ardour  of  the  poet  with  the  patience  and 
forbearance  of  the  philosopher.  His  generosity  and 
charity  went  far  beyond  those  of  any  man  (I  believe)  at 
present  in  existence.  He  was  never  known  to  speak  evil 
of  an  enemy,  unless  that  enemy  had  done  some  grievous 
injustice  to  another:  and  he  divided  his  income  of  only 
one  thousand  pounds,  with  the  fallen  and  afflicted. 

This  is  the  man  against  whom  such  clamours  have  been 
raised  by  the  religious  c  la  mode,  and  by  those  who  live 
and  lap  under  their  tables:  this  is  the  man  whom,  from 
one  false  story  about  his  former  wife,  I  had  refused  to 
visit  at  Pisa.  I  blush  in  anguish  at  my  prejudice  and  in- 
justice, and  ought  hardly  to  feel  it  as  a  blessing  or  a  con- 
solation, that  I  regret  him  less  than  I  should  have  done  if 
I  had  known  him  personally.  As  to  what  remains  of 
him  now  life  is  over,  he  occupies  the  third  place  among 
our  poets  of  the  present  age  —  no  humble  station  —  for 
no  other  age  since  that  of  Sophocles  has  produced  on  the 
whole  earth  so  many  of  such  merits  —  and  is  incom- 
parably the  most  elegant,  graceful,  and  harmonious  of 

the  prose  writers.  .„    „    , 

^  W.  S.  Landor 

Walter  Savage  Landor     ^^^^y         ^^:>  ^c>  'Qy 

I 

I  DO  not  assert  that  my  grief  remains  for  days  or  even 
hours  together,  violent  or  unremitted,  although  it  has 
done  so  once  or  twice:    but  seldom  have  I  thought  of  a 
261 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

friend  or  companion,  be  it  at  the  distance  of  thirty  or 
forty  years,  that  the  thought  is  not  as  intense  and  painful, 
and  of  as  long  a  visitation,  as  it  was  at  first.  Even  those 
with  whom  I  have  not  lived,  and  whom  indeed  I  have 
never  seen,  affect  me  by  sympathy,  as  though  I  had  known 
them  intimately,  and  I  hold  with  them  in  my  walks  many 
imaginary  conversations.  If  anything  could  engage  me 
to  visit  Rome,  to  endure  the  sight  of  her  scarred  and  awful 
ruins,  telling  their  grave  stories  upon  the  ground  in  the 
midst  of  eunuchs  and  fiddlers;  if  I  could  let  charnel- 
houses  and  opera-houses,  consuls  and  popes,  tribunes  and 
cardinals,  orators  and  preachers,  clash  in  my  mind,  it 
would  be  that  I  might  afterwards  spend  an  hour  in  solitude 
where  the  pyramid  of  Cestius  points  to  the  bones  of  Keats 
and  Shelley.  Nothing  so  attracts  my  heart  as  ruins  in 
deserts,  or  so  repels  it  as  ruins  in  the  circle  of  fashion. 
What  is  so  shocking  as  the  hard  verity  of  Death  swept 
by  the  rustling  masquerade  of  Life  !  and  does  not  Mortality 
of  herself  teach  us  how  little  we  are,  without  placing  us 
amidst  the  trivialities  of  patchwork  pomp,  where  Virgil 
led  the  gods  to  found  an  empire,  where  Cicero  saved  and 
Caesar  shook  the  world  1 

II 

IT  has  been  my  fortune  and  felicity,  from  my  earliest 
days,  to  have  avoided  all  competitions.  My  Tutor 
at  Oxford  could  never  persuade  me  to  write  a  piece  of 
latin  poetry  for  the  Prize,  earnest  as  he  was  that  his  pupil 
should  be  a  winner  at  the  forthcoming  Euccsnia. 

Poetry  was  always  my  amusement,  prose  my  study  and 
business.     I  have  published  five  volumes  of  Imaginary 
Conversations :  cut  the  worst  of  them  through  the  middle, 
262 


The   Poets 

and  there  will  remain  in  this  decimal  fraction  quite  enough 
to  satisfy  my  appetite  for  fame.  I  shall  dine  late ;  but  the 
dining-room  will  be  well  lighted,  the  guests  few  and  select. 

Ill 

On  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday 

T  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife, 
-*-     Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life, 
It  sinks  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

IV 
On  his  Eightieth  Birthday 

TO  my  ninth  decade  I  have  totter'd  on. 
And  no  soft  arms  bend  now  my  steps  to  steady; 
She  who  once  led  me  where  she  would,  is  gone, 
So  when  he  calls  me,  Death  shall  find  me  ready. 


V 


T~\EATH  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 
^-^  I  know  not  what  into  my  ear: 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 

W.  S.  Landor 


263 


XIX 

THE   TALKERS 

Thomas  De  Quincey     ^cy      -=^      ^^i.-      •^^      <:> 

THE  next  slide  of  the  lantern  is  to  represent  a  quite 
peculiar  and  abnormal  case.  It  introduces  a  strangely 
fragile,  unsubstantial,  and  puerile  figure,  wherein,  however, 
resided  one  of  the  most  potent  and  original  spirits  that  ever 
frequented  a  tenement  of  clay.  He  shall  be  called,  on 
account  of  associations  that  may  or  may  not  be  found  out, 
Thomas  Papaverius.  But  how  to  make  palpable  to  the 
ordinary  human  being  one  so  signally  divested  of  all  the 
material  and  common  characteristics  of  his  race,  yet  so 
nobly  endowed  with  its  rarer  and  loftier  attributes,  almost 
paralyzes  the  pen  at  the  very  beginning. 

In  what  mood  and  shape  shall  he  be  brought  forward? 
Shall  it  be  as  first  we  met  at  the  table  of  Lucullus,  whereto 
he  was  seduced  by  the  false  pretence  that  he  would  there 
meet  with  one  who  entertained  novel  and  anarchical  opinions 
regarding  The  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius?  No  one  speaks 
of  waiting  dinner  for  him.  He  will  come  and  depart  at 
his  own  sweet  will,  neither  burdened  with  punctualities  nor 
burdening  others  by  exacting  them.  The  festivities  of 
the  afternoon  are  far  on  when  a  commotion  is  heard  in  the 
hall  as  if  some  dog  or  other  stray  animal  had  forced  its 
264 


The   Talkers 

way  in.  The  instinct  of  a  friendly  guest  tells  him  of  the 
arrival  —  he  opens  the  door,  and  fetches  in  the  little  stranger. 
What  can  it  be?  a  street-boy  of  some  sort?  His  costume, 
in  fact,  is  a  boy's  duffle  great-coat,  very  threadbare,  with 
a  hole  in  it,  and  buttoned  tight  to  the  chin,  where  it  meets 
the  fragments  of  a  parti-coloured  belcher  handkerchief; 
on  his  feet  are  list-shoes,  covered  with  snow,  for  it  is  a 
stormy  winter  night ;  and  the  trousers  —  some  one  suggests 
that  they  are  inner  linen  garments  blackened  with  writing- 
ink,  but  that  Papaverius  never  would  have  been  at  the 
trouble  so  to  disguise  them.  What  can  be  the  theory 
of  such  a  costume  ?  The  simplest  thing  in  the  world  — 
it  consisted  of  the  fragments  of  apparel  nearest  at  hand. 
Had  chance  thrown  to  him  a  court  single-breasted  coat, 
with  a  bishop's  apron,  a  kilt,  and  top-boots,  in  these  he 
would  have  made  his  entry. 

The  first  impression  that  a  boy  has  appeared  vanishes 
instantly.  Though  in  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  genial 
of  his  essays  he  shows  how  every  man  retains  so  much  in 
him  of  the  child  he  originally  was  —  and  he  himself  re- 
tained a  great  deal  of  that  primitive  simplicity  —  it  was 
buried  within  the  depths  of  his  heart  —  not  visible  ex- 
ternally. On  the  contrary,  on  one  occasion  when  he 
corrected  an  erroneous  reference  to  an  event  as  being  a 
century  old,  by  saying  that  he  recollected  its  occurrence, 
one  felt  almost  a  surprise  at  the  necessary  limitation  in 
his  age,  so  old  did  he  appear,  with  his  arched  brow  loaded 
with  thought,  and  the  countless  little  wrinkles  which 
engrained  his  skin,  gathering  thickly  round  the  curiously 
expressive  and  sul)tlc  li[)S.  These  lips  arc  speedily  opened 
by  some  casual  remark,  and  presently  the  flood  of  talk 
passes  forth  from  them,  free,  clear,  and  continuous  — 
never  rising  into  declamation  —  never  losing  a  certain 
265 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

mellow  earnestness,  and  all  consisting  of  sentences  as 
exquisitely  jointed  together  as  if  they  were  destined  to 
challenge  the  criticism  of  the  remotest  posterity.  Still 
the  hours  stride  over  each  other,  and  still  flows  on  the  stream 
of  gentle  rhetoric,  as  if  it  were  labitur  et  labetur  in  omne 
voliibilis  cEvum.  It  is  now  far  into  the  night,  and  slight 
hints  and  suggestions  are  propagated  about  separation  and 
home-going.  The  topic  starts  new  ideas  on  the  progress 
of  civilization,  the  effect  of  habit  on  men  in  all  ages,  and 
the  power  of  the  domestic  affections.  Descending  from 
generals  to  the  special,  he  could  testify  to  the  inconvenience 
of  late  hours ;  for,  was  it  not  the  other  night  that,  coming 
to  what  was,  or  what  he  believed  to  be,  his  own  door,  he 
knocked,  and  knocked,  but  the  old  woman  within  either 
couldn't  or  wouldn't  hear  him,  so  he  scrambled  over  a  wall, 
and,  having  taken  his  repose  in  a  furrow,  was  able  to  testify 
to  the  extreme  unpleasantness  of  such  a  couch.  The 
predial  groove  might  indeed  nourish  kindly  the  infant 
seeds  and  shoots  of  the  peculiar  vegetable  to  which  it  was 
appropriated,  but  was  not  a  comfortable  place  of  repose 
for  adult  man. 

Shall  I  try  another  sketch  of  him,  when,  travel-stained 
and  foot-sore,  he  glided  in  on  us  one  night  like  a  shadow, 
the  child  by  the  fire  gazing  on  him  with  round  eyes  of 
astonishment,  and  suggesting  that  he  should  get  a  penny 
and  go  home  —  a  proposal  which  he  subjected  to  some 
philosophical  criticism  very  far  wide  of  its  practical  tenor. 
How  far  he  had  wandered  since  he  had  last  refreshed  him- 
self, or  even  whether  he  had  eaten  food  that  day,  were 
matters  on  which  there  was  no  getting  articulate  utterance 
from  him.  Though  his  costume  was  muddy,  however, 
and  his  communications  about  the  material  wants  of  life 
uery  hazy,  the  ideas  which  he  had  stored  up  during  his 
266 


The  Talkers 

wandering  poured  themselves  forth  as  clear  and  sparkling, 
both  in  logic  and  language,  as  the  purest  fountain  that 
springs  from  a  Highland  rock. 

How  that  wearied,  worn,  little  body  was  to  be  refreshed 
was  a  difficult  problem :  soft  food  disagreed  with  him  — 
the  hard  he  could  not  eat.  Suggestions  pointed  at  length 
to  the  solution  of  that  vegetable  unguent  to  which  he  had 
given  a  sort  of  lustre,  and  it  might  be  supposed  that  there 
were  some  fifty  cases  of  acute  toothache  to  be  treated  in 
the  house  that  night.  How  many  drops?  Drops!  non- 
sense. If  the  wine-glasses  of  the  establishment  were  not 
beyond  the  ordinary  normal  size,  there  was  no  risk  —  and 
so  the  weary  is  at  rest  for  a  time. 

At  early  morn  a  triumphant  crj'  of  Eureka!  calls  me 
to  his  place  of  rest.  With  his  unfailing  instinct  he  has 
got  at  the  books,  and  lugged  a  considerable  heap  of  them 
around  him.  That  one  which  specially  claims  his  atten- 
tion —  my  best  bound  quarto  —  is  spread  upon  a  piece 
of  bodroom  furniture  readily  at  hand,  and  of  sufficient 
height  to  let  him  pore  over  it  as  he  lies  recumbent  on  the 
floor,  with  only  one  article  of  attire  to  separate  him  from 
the  condition  in  which  Archimedes,  according  to  the 
popular  story,  shouted  the  same  triumphant  cry.  He 
had  discovered  a  \ery  remarkable  anachronism  in  the 
commonly  received  histories  of  a  very  important  period. 
As  he  expounded  it,  turning  up  his  unearthly  face  from 
the  book  with  an  almost  painful  expression  of  grave  eager- 
ness, it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  seen  something  like  the 
scene  in  Dutch  paintings  of  the  Temptation  of  St.  Anthony. 

Suppose  the  scene  changed  to  a  pleasant  country-house, 
where  the  enlivening  talk  has  made  a  guest  forget 

The  lanf5  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
267 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

that  lie  between  him  and  his  place  of  rest.  He  must  be 
instructed  in  his  course,  but  the  instruction  reveals  more 
difficulties  than  it  removes,  and  there  is  much  doubt  and 
discussion,  vi^hich  Papaverius  at  once  clears  up  as  effect- 
ually as  he  had  ever  dispersed  a  cloud  of  logical  sophisms ; 
and  this  time  the  feat  is  performed  by  a  stroke  of  the 
thoroughly  practical,  vi'hich  looks  like  inspiration  —  he 
-will  accompany  the  forlorn  traveller,  and  lead  him  through 
the  difficulties  of  the  way  —  for  have  not  midnight  wander- 
ings and  musings  made  him  familiar  with  all  its  intricacies? 
Roofed  by  a  huge  wideawake,  which  makes  his  tiny  figure 
look  like  the  stalk  of  some  great  fungus,  with  a  lantern  of 
more  than  common  dimensions  in  his  hand,  away  he  goes 
down  the  wooded  path,  up  the  steep  bank,  along  the 
brawling  stream,  and  across  the  waterfall  —  and  ever  as 
he  goes  there  comes  from  him  a  continued  stream  of  talk 
concerning  the  philosophy  of  Immanuel  Kant,  and  other 
kindred  matters.  Surely  if  we  two  were  seen  by  any 
human  eyes,  it  must  have  been  supposed  that  some  gnome, 
or  troll,  or  kelpie  was  luring  the  listener  to  his  doom.  The 
worst  of  such  affairs  as  this  was  the  consciousness  that, 
when  left,  the  old  man  would  continue  walking  on  until, 
weariness  overcoming  him,  he  would  take  his  rest,  where- 
ever  that  happened,  like  some  poor  mendicant.  He  used 
to  denounce,  with  his  most  fervent  eloquence,  that  bar- 
barous and  brutal  provision  of  the  law  of  England  which 
rendered  sleeping  in  the  open  air  an  act  of  vagrancy,  and 
so  punishable,  if  the  sleeper  could  not  give  a  satisfactory 
account  of  himself  —  a  thing  which  Papaverius  never 
could  give  under  any  circumstances.  After  all,  I  fear  this 
is  an  attempt  to  describe  the  indescribable.  It  was  the 
commonest  of  sayings  when  any  of  his  friends  were  men- 
tioning to  each  other  "his  last,"  and  creating  mutual  shrugs 
268 


The  Talkers 

of  astonishment,  that,  were  one  to  attempt  to  tell  all  about 
him,  no  man  would  believe  it,  so  separate  would  the  whole 
be  from  all  the  normal  conditions  of  human  nature. 

The  difficulty  becomes  more  inextricable  in  passing  from 
specific  little  incidents  to  an  estimation  of  the  general 
nature  of  the  man.  The  logicians  lucidly  describe  definition 
as  being  per  genus  et  differcntiam.  You  have  the  char- 
acteristics in  which  all  of  the  genus  partake  as  common 
ground,  and  then  you  individualize  your  object  by  showing 
in  what  it  differs  from  the  others  of  the  genus.  But  we 
are  denied  this  standard  for  Papaverius,  so  entirely  did 
he  stand  apart,  divested  of  the  ordinary  characteristics  of 
social  man  —  of  those  characteristics  without  which  the 
human  race  as  a  body  could  not  get  on  or  exist.  For  in- 
stance, those  who  knew  him  a  little  might  call  him  a  loose 
man  in  money  matters;  those  who  knew  him  closer  laughed 
at  the  idea  of  coupling  any  notion  pecuniary  or  other  like 
responsibility  with  his  nature.  You  might  as  well  attack 
the  character  of  the  nightingale,  which  may  have  nipped 
up  your  five-pound  note  and  torn  it  to  shreds  to  serve  as 
nest-building  material.  Only  immediate  craving  neces- 
sities could  ever  extract  from  him  an  acknowledgment  of 
the  common  vulgar  agencies  by  which  men  subsist  in 
civilized  society;  and  only  while  the  necessity  lasted  did 
the  acknowledgment  exist.  Take  just  one  example,  which 
will  render  this  clearer  than  any  generalities.  He  arrives 
very  late  at  a  friend's  door,  and  on  gaining  admission  — 
a  process  in  which  he  often  endured  impediments — he 
represents,  with  his  usual  silver  voice  and  measured  rhetoric, 
the  absolute  necessity  of  his  being  then  and  there  invested 
with  a  .sum  of  money  in  the  current  coin  of  the  realm  — 
the  amount  limited,  from  the  nature  of  his  necessities, 
which  he  very  freely  states,  to  seven  shillings  and  sixpence. 
269 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Discovering,  or  fancying  ho  discovers,  signs  that  his  elo- 
quence is  hkelv  to  be  unproductive,  he  is  fortunately 
reminded  that,  should  there  be  any  diOiculty  in  connection 
witii  security  for  the  repayment  of  the  loan,  he  is  at  that 
moment  in  possession  of  a  document,  which  he  is  prepareil 
to  deposit  with  the  lender  —  a  document  calculated,  he 
cannot  doubt,  to  remove  any  feeling  of  anxiety  which  the 
most  prudent  person  could  experience  in  the  circumstances. 
After  a  rummage  in  his  pockets,  which  develops  miscel- 
laneous and  varied,  but  as  yet  by  no  means  valuable  posses- 
sions, he  at  last  comes  to  the  object  of  his  search,  a  crumpled 
bit  of  pajKT,  and  spreads  it  out  —  a  fifly-pound  bank- 
note! The  friend,  who  knew  him  well,  was  of  opinion 
tliat,  had  he,  on  delivering  over  the  seven  shillings  and 
sixpence,  received  the  bank-note,  he  nevt-r  would  have 
heard  anything  more  of  the  transaction  from  the  other 
parly.  It  was  also  his  opinion  tliat,  before  coming  to 
a  personal  friend,  the  owner  of  the  note  had  made  several 
elTorts  to  raise  money  on  it  among  persons  who  might  take 
a  purely  business  view  of  such  transactions^  l)ut  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  and  something  in  the  appearance  of  the 
thing  altogether,  had  induced  tliese  mercenaries  to  forget 
their  cunning,  and  decline  the  transaction. 

He  stretched  till  it  broke  the  proverb  that  to  give  quickly 
is  as  good  as  to  give  twice.  His  giving  was  quick  enough 
on  llu-  rare  occasions  wlien  he  had  wherewithal  to  give, 
but  then  the  act  was  linal  and  could  not  be  repeated,  it 
lie  sutTered  in  his  own  person  from  this  peculiarity,  he 
silTered  still  more  in  his  sympathies,  for  he  was  full  of 
tliem  to  all  breathing  creatures,  and,  like  poor  Goldy,  it 
was  agonv  to  him  to  hear  the  beggar's  cry  of  distress,  and 
to  liear  it  without  tlie  means  of  assuaging  it,  though  in 
a  departed  lifty  jHunuls  there  were  doubtless  the  elements 
270     ■ 


The  Talkers 

for  appeasing  many  a  street  wail.  All  sums  of  money  were 
measured  by  him  through  the  common  standard  of  im- 
mediate use;  and  with  more  solemn  pomp  of  diction  than 
he  applied  to  the  bank-note,  might  he  inform  you  that, 
with  the  gentleman  opposite,  to  whom  he  had  hitherto 
been  entirely  a  stranger,  but  who  happened  to  be  nearest 
to  him  at  the  time  when  the  exigency  occurred  to  him,  he 
had  just  succeeded  in  negotiating  a  loan  of  "twopence." 
He  was  and  is  a  great  authority  in  political  economy. 
I  have  known  great  anatomists  and  physiologists  as  careless 
of  their  health  as  he  was  of  his  purse,  whence  I  have  in- 
ferred that  something  more  than  a  knowledge  of  the  abstract 
truth  of  political  economy  is  necessarj'  to  keep  some  men 
from  pecuniar}-  imprudence,  and  that  something  more 
than  a  knowledge  of  the  received  principles  of  physiolog)' 
is  necessary  to  bring  others  into  a  course  of  perfect  sobriety 
and  general  obedience  to  the  laws  of  health.  Further, 
Papaverius  had  an  extraordinar}-  insight  into  practical 
human  life ;  not  merely  in  the  abstract,  but  in  the  concrete ; 
not  merely  as  a  philosopher  of  human  nature,  but  as  one 
who  saw  into  those  who  passed  him  in  the  walk  of  life  with 
the  kind  of  intuition  attributed  to  expert  detectives  —  a 
faculty  that  is  known  to  have  belonged  to  more  than  one 
dreamer,  and  is  one  of  the  mysteries  in  the  nature  of  J.  J. 
Rousseau;  and,  by  the  way,  like  Rousseau's,  his  hand- 
writing was  clear,  angular,  and  unimpassioned,  and  not 
kss  uniform  and  legible  than  printing  —  as  if  the  medium 
of  conveying  so  noble  a  thing  as  thought  ought  to  be  care- 
fully, symmetrically,  and  decorously  constructed,  let  all 
other  material  things  be  as  neglectfully  and  scornfully 
dealt  with  as  may  be. 

This  is  a  long  procmiiim  to  the  description  of  his  char- 
acteristics as  a  book-hunter  —  but  these  can   be  briefly 
271 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

told.  Not  for  him  were  the  common  enjoyments  and 
excitements  of  the  pursuit.  He  cared  not  to  add  volume 
unto  volume,  and  heap  up  the  relics  of  the  printing-press. 
All  the  external  niceties  about  pet  editions,  pecuHarities 
of  binding  or  of  printing,  rarity  itself,  were  no  more  to  him 
than  to  the  Arab  or  the  Hottentot.  His  pursuit,  indeed, 
was  like  that  of  the  savage  who  seeks  but  to  appease  the 
hunger  of  the  moment.  If  he  catch  a  prey  just  sufficient 
for  his  desires,  it  is  well;  yet  he  will  not  hesitate  to  bring 
down  the  elk  or  the  buffalo,  and,  satiating  himself  with  the 
choicer  delicacies,  abandon  the  bulk  of  the  carc:ss  to  the 
wolves  or  the  vultures.  So  of  Papaverius.  If  his  intel- 
lectual appetite  were  craving  after  some  passage  in  the 
QLdipus,  or  in  the  Medeia,  or  in  Plato's  Republic,  he  would 
be  quite  contented  with  the  most  tattered  and  valueless 
fragment  of  the  volume,  if  it  contained  what  he  wanted; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  seize  upon 
your  tall  copy  in  russia  gilt  and  tooled.  Nor  would  the 
exemption  of  an  editio  princeps  from  everyday  sordid  work 
restrain  his  sacrilegious  hands.  If  it  should  contain  the 
thing  he  desires  to  see,  what  is  to  hinder  him  from  wrench- 
ing out  the  twentieth  volume  of  your  Encyclopedic  Me- 
thodique  or  Ersch  und  Gruber,  leaving  a  vacancy  like  an 
extracted  front  tooth,  and  carrying  it  off  to  his  den  of 
Cacus?  If  you  should  mention  the  matter  to  any  vulgar- 
mannered  acquaintance  given  to  the  unhallowed  practice 
of  jeering,  he  would  probably  touch  his  nose  with  his 
extended  palm  and  say :  "  Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it  ?  " 
True,  the  world  at  large  has  gained  a  brilliant  essay  on 
Euripides  or  Plato  —  but  what  is  that  to  the  rightful  owner 
of  the  lost  sheep? 

The  learned  world  may  very  fairly  be  divided  into  those 
who  return  the  books  borrowed  by  them,  and  those  who 
272 


The  Talkers 

do  not.  Papaverius  belonged  decidedly  to  the  latter  order. 
A  friend  addicted  to  the  marvellous  boasts  that,  under  the 
pressure  of  a  call  by  a  public  library  to  replace  a  mutilated 
book  with  a  new  copy,  which  would  have  cost  £30,  he 
recovered  a  volume  from  Papaverius,  through  the  agency 
of  a  person  specially  bribed  and  authorized  to  take  any 
necessary  measures,  insolence  and  violence  excepted  — 
but  the  power  of  extraction  that  must  have  been  employed 
in  such  a  process  excites  very  painful  reflections.  Some 
legend,  too,  there  is  of  a  book  creditor  having  forced  his 
way  into  the  Cacus  den,  and  there  seen  a  sort  of  rubble- 
work  inner  wall  of  volumes,  with  their  edges  outwards, 
while  others,  bound  and  unbound,  the  plebeian  sheepskin 
and  the  aristocratic  russian,  were  squeezed  into  certain 
tubs  drawn  from  the  washing  establishment  of  a  con- 
fiding landlady.  In  other  instances  the  book  has  been 
recognized  at  large,  greatly  enhanced  in  value  by  a  profuse 
edging  of  manuscript  notes  from  a  gifted  pen  —  a  phe- 
nomenon calculated  to  luring  into  practical  use  the  specu- 
lations of  the  civilians  about  pictures  painted  on  other 
people's  panels.  What  became  of  all  his  waifs  and  strays, 
it  might  be  well  not  to  inquire  too  curiously.  If  he  ran 
short  of  legitimate  tabula  rasa  to  write  on,  do  you  think 
he  would  hesitate  to  tear  out  the  most  convenient  leaves 
of  any  broad-margined  book,  whether  belonging  to  himself 
or  another?  Nay,  it  is  said  he  once  gave  in  copy  written 
on  the  edges  of  a  tall  octavo  Somnium  Scipionis;  and  as 
he  did  not  obliterate  the  original  matter,  the  printer  was 
rather  puzzled,  and  made  a  funny  jumble  between  the 
letterpress  Latin  and  the  manuscript  English.  All  these 
things  were  the  types  of  an  intellectual  vitality  which  de- 
si)i.sed  and  thrust  aside  all  that  was  gross  or  material  in 
that  wherewith  it  came  in  contact.  Surely  never  did  the 
T  273 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

austerities  of  monk  or  anchorite  so  entirely  cast  all  these 
away  as  his  peculiar  nature  removed  them  from  him.  It 
may  be  questioned  if  he  ever  knew  what  it  was  "to  eat  a 
good  dinner,"  or  could  even  comprehend  the  nature  of  such 
a  felicity.  Yet  in  all  the  sensuous  nerves  which  connect 
as  it  were  the  body  with  the  ideal,  he  was  painfully  suscep- 
tible. Hence  a  false  quantity  or  a  wrong  note  in  music 
was  agony  to  him;  and  it  is  remembered  with  what  ludi- 
crous solemnity  he  apostrophized  his  unhappy  fate  as  one 
over  whom  a  cloud  of  the  darkest  despair  had  just  been 
drawn  —  a  peacock  had  come  to  live  within  hearing  dis- 
tance from  him,  and  not  only  the  terrific  yells  of  the  accursed 
biped  pierced  him  to  the  soul,  but  the  continued  terror  of 
their  recurrence  kept  his  nerves  in  agonizing  tension  during 
the  intervals  of  silence. 

Peace  be  with  his  gentle  and  kindly  spirit,  now  for 
some  time  separated  from  its  grotesque  and  humble 
tenement  of  clay.  It  is  both  right  and  pleasant  to  say 
that  the  characteristics  here  spoken  of  were  not  those 
of  his  latter  days.  In  these  he  was  tended  by  affectionate 
hands ;  and  I  have  always  thought  it  a  wonderful  instance 
of  the  power  of  domestic  care  and  management  that, 
through  the  ministrations  of  a  devoted  offspring,  this 
strange  being  was  so  cared  for,  that  those  who  came  in 
contact  with  him  then,  and  then  only,  might  have  admired 
him  as  the  patriarchal  head  of  an  agreeable  and  elegant 
household. 

/.  H.  Burton 

Crabb  Robinson       <:>        -<;:>        -o        'Qy        ^^:> 

HE  was  always  called  "old  Crabb,"  and  that  is  the  only 
name  which  will  ever  bring  up  his  curious  image  to 
me.     He  was  in  the  true  old  English  sense  of  the  word,  a 

274 


The  Talkers 

"character";    one  whom  a  very  peculiar  life,  certainly, 

and  perhaps  also  a  rather  peculiar  nature  to  begin  with, 

had  formed  and  moulded  into  something  so  exceptional 

and  singular  that  it  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  ordinary  life, 

and  almost  caused  a  smile  when  you  saw  it  moving  there. 

"An  aberrant  form,"  I  believe,  the  naturalists  call  the  seal 

and  such  things  in  natural  history;   odd  shapes  that  can 

only  be  explained  by  a  long  past,  and  which  swim  with 

a  certain  incongruity  in  their  present  milieu.     Now  "old 

Crabb"  was  (to  me  at  least)  just  like  that.     You  watched 

with  interest  and  pleasure  his  singular  gestures,  and  his 

odd  way  of  saying  things,  and  muttered,  as  if  to  keep  up 

the  recollection,  "And  this  is  the  man  who  was  the  friend 

of  Goethe,  and  is  the  friend  of  Wordsworth !"     There  was 

a  certain  animal  oddity  about  "old  Crabb,"  which  made 

it  a  kind  of  mental  joke  to  couple  him  with  such  great 

names,  and  yet  he  was  to  his  heart's  core  thoroughly 

coupled  with  them.     If  you  leave  out  all  his  strange  ways 

(I  do  not  say  Dr.  Sadler  has  quite  left  them  out,  but  to 

some  extent  he  has  been  obliged,  by  place  and  decorum, 

to  omit  them),  you  lose  the  life  of  the  man.     You  cut  from 

the  Ethiopian  his  skin,   and  from  the  leopard  his  spots. 

I  well  remember  poor  Clough,  who  was  then  fresh  from 

Oxford,  and  was  much  puzzled  by  the  corner  of  London 

to  which  he  had  drifted,  looking  at  "old  Crabb"  in  a  kind 

of  terror  for  a  whole  breakfast-time,  and  muttering  in 

mute  wonder,  almost  to  himself,  as  he  came  away,  "Not 

at  all  the  regular  patriarch."     And  certainly  no  one  could 

accuse  Mr.   Robinson  of  an   insipid  regularity  either  in 

face  or  nature. 

Mr.  Robinson  was  one  of  the  original  founders  of  Uni- 
versity College,  and  was  for  many  years  both  on  its  senate 
and  council;   and  as  he  lived  near  the  College  he  was  fond 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

of  collecting  at  breakfast  all  the  elder  students  —  especially 
those  who  had  any  sort  of  interest  in  literature.  Probably 
he  never  appeared  to  so  much  advantage,  or  shovi^ed  all 
the  best  of  his  nature,  so  well  as  in  those  parties.  Like 
most  very  cheerful  old  people,  he  at  heart  preferred  the 
company  of  the  very  young;  and  a  set  of  young  students, 
even  after  he  was  seventy,  suited  him  better  as  society  than 
a  set  of  grave  old  men.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  would 
invite  —  I  do  not  say  some  of  his  contemporaries,  few  of 
them  even  in  1847  were  up  to  breakfast  parties,  but  per- 
sons of  fifty  and  sixty  —  those  whom  young  students  call 
old  gentlemen.  And  it  was  amusing  to  watch  the  con- 
sternation of  some  of  them  at  the  surprising  youth  and 
levity  of  their  host.  They  shuddered  at  the  freedom  with 
which  we  treated  him.  Middle-aged  men,  of  feeble  heads 
and  half  made  reputations,  have  a  nice  dislike  to  the  sharp 
arguments  and  the  unsparing  jests  of  "boys  at  college"; 
they  cannot  bear  the  rough  society  of  those  who,  never 
having  tried  their  own  strength,  have  not  yet  acquired 
a  fellow-feeling  for  weakness.  Many  such  persons,  I  am 
sure,  were  half  hurt  with  Mr.  Robinson  for  not  keeping 
those  "impertinent  boys"  more  at  a  just  distance;  but 
Mr.  Robinson  liked  fun  and  movement,  and  disliked  the 
sort  of  dignity  which  shelters  stupidity.  There  was  little 
to  gratify  the  unintellectual  part  of  man  at  these  breakfasts, 
and  what  there  was  was  not  easy  to  be  got  at.  Your  host, 
just  as  you  were  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  found  he  had 
forgotten  to  make  the  tea,  then  he  could  not  find  his  keys, 
then  he  rang  the  bell  to  have  them  searched  for;  but  long 
before  the  servant  came  he  had  gone  off  into  "Schiller- 
Goethe,"  and  could  not  the  least  remember  what  he  had 
wanted.  The  more  astute  of  his  guests  used  to  breakfast 
before  they  came,  and  then  there  was  much  interest  in 
276 


The  Talkers 

seeing  a  steady  literarj'  man,  who  did  not  understand  the 
region,  in  agonies  at  having  to  hear  three  stories  before 
he  got  his  tea,  one  again  between  his  milk  and  his  sugar, 
another  between  his  butter  and  his  toast,  and  additional 
zest  in  making  a  stealthy  inquiry  that  was  sure  to  inter- 
cept the  coming  delicacies  by  bringing  on  Schiller  and 
Goethe. 

It  is  said  in  these  memoirs  that  Mr.  Robinson's  parents 
were  very  good-looking,  and  that  when  married  they  were 
called  the  handsome  couple.  But  in  his  old  age  very  little 
regular  beauty  adhered  to  him,  if  he  ever  had  any.  His 
face  was  pleasing  from  its  animation,  its  kindness,  and 
its  shrewdness,  but  the  nose  was  one  of  the  most  slovenly 
which  nature  had  ever  turned  out,  and  the  chin  of  excessive 
length,  with  portentous  power  of  extension. 

But,  perhaps,  for  the  purpose  of  a  social  narrator  (and 
in  later  years  this  was  Mr.  Robinson's  position),  this  oddity 
of  feature  was  a  gift.  It  was  said,  and  justly  said,  that 
Lord  Brougham  used  to  punctuate  his  sentences  with  his 
nose;  just  at  the  end  of  a  long  parenthesis  he  could,  and 
did,  turn  up  his  nose,  which  served  to  note  the  change  of 
subject  as  well,  or  better,  than  a  printed  mark.  Mr. 
Robinson  was  not  so  skilful  as  this,  but  he  made  a  very 
able  use  of  the  chin  at  a  conversational  crisis,  and  just  at 
the  point  of  a  story  pushed  it  out,  and  then  very  slowly 
drew  it  in  again,  so  that  you  always  knew  when  to 
laugh,  and  the  oddity  of  the  gesture  helped  you  in  laugh- 
ing. ... 

Of  course,  these  stories  came  over  and  over  again.  It 
is  the  excellence  of  a  reminiscent  to  have  a  few  good  stories, 
and  his  misfortune  that  people  will  rememljer  what  he 
says.  In  Mr.  Robinson's  case  an  unskilled  person  could 
often  see  the  anecdote  somewhere  impending,  and  there 

277 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

was  often  much  interest  in  trying  whether  you  could  ward 
it  oflf  or  not.  There  was  one  great  misfortune  which  had 
happened  to  his  guests,  though  he  used  to  tell  it  as  one  of 
the  best  things  that  had  ever  happened  to  himself.  He 
had  picked  up  a  certain  bust  of  Wieland  by  Schadow, 
which  it  appears  had  been  lost,  and  in  the  finding  of  which 
Goethe,  even  Goethe,  rejoiced.  After  a  very  long  interval 
I  still  shudder  to  think  how  often  I  have  heard  that  story; 
it  was  one  which  no  skill  or  care  could  long  avert,  for  the 
thing  stood  opposite  our  host's  chair,  and  the  sight  of  it 
was  sure  to  recall  him.  Among  the  ungrateful  students 
to  whom  he  was  so  kind,  the  first  question  always  asked 
of  any  one  who  had  breakfasted  at  his  house  was,  "Did 
you  undergo  the  bust?'^ 

A  reader  of  these  memoirs  would  naturally  and  justly 
think  that  the  great  interest  of  Mr.  Robinson's  conversa- 
tion was  the  strength  of  the  past  memory  ;  but  quite  as 
amusing  or  more  so  was  the  present  weakness.  He  never 
could  remember  names,  and  was  very  ingenious  in  his 
devices  to  elude  the  defect. 

There  is  a  story  in  these  memoirs :  — 

"I  was  engaged  to  dine  with  Mr.  Wansey  at  Waltham- 
stow.  When  I  arrived  there  I  was  in  the  greatest  distress, 
through  having  forgotten  his  name.  And  it  was  not  until 
after  half  an  hour's  worry  that  I  recollected  he  was  a 
Unitarian,  which  would  answer  as  well;  for  I  instantly 
proceeded  to  Mr.  Cogan's.  Having  been  shown  into  a 
room,  young  Mr.  Cogan  came  —  'Your  commands,  sir?' 
—  'Mr.  Cogan,  I  have  taken  the  hberty  to  call  on  you  in 
order  to  know  where  I  am  to  dine  to-day.'  He  smiled. 
I  went  on :  '  The  truth  is,  I  have  accepted  an  invitation 
to  dine  with  a  gentleman,  a  recent  acquaintance,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten ;  but  I  am  sure  you  can  tell  me, 
278 


The  Talkers 

for  he  is  a  Unitarian,  and  the  Unitarians  are  very  few 
here.'  " 

And  at  his  breakfasts  it  was  always  the  same;  he  was 
always  in  difficulty  as  to  some  person's  name  or  other, 
and  he  had  regular  descriptions  which  recurred,  like 
Homeric  epithets,  and  which  he  expected  you  to  apply 
to  the  individual.  Thus  poor  Clough  always  appeared  — 
"That  admirable  and  accomplished  man.  You  know 
whom  I  mean.  The  one  who  never  says  anything." 
And  of  another  living  poet  he  used  to  say:  "Probably 
the  most  able,  and  certainly  the  most  consequential,  of 
all  the  young  persons  I  know.  You  know  which  it  is. 
The  one  with  whom  I  could  never  presume  to  be  intimate. 
The  one  whose  father  I  knew  so  many  years."  And 
another  particular  friend  of  my  own  always  occurred  as 
"That  great  friend  of  yours  that  has  been  in  Germany  — 
that  most  accomplished  and  interesting  person  —  that 
most  able  and  excellent  young  man.  Sometimes  I  like 
him,  and  sometimes  I  hate  him.  You,"  turning  to  me, 
"know  whom  I  mean,  you  villain!"  And  certainly  I 
did  know;  for  I  had  heard  the  same  adjectives,  and  been 
referred  to  in  the  same  manner  very  many  times. 

Walter  Bagehol 

James  Northcote       ^cy        o        ^o        ^o        ^o 

OF  all  the  Academicians,  the  painters,  or  persons  I 
have  ever  known,    Mr.   Northcote  is  the  most  to 
my  taste.     It  may  be  said  of  him  truly, 

Age  cannot  wither,  nor  custom  stale 
His  infinite  variety. 

Indeed,  it  is  not  po.ssible  he  should  become  tedious,  since, 

even  if  he  repeats  the  .same  thing,  it  appears  quite  new  from 

279 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

his  manner  that  breathes  new  life  into  it,  and  from  his  eye, 
that  is  as  fresh  as  the  morning.  How  you  hate  any  one 
who  tells  the  same  story  or  anticipates  a  remark  of  his  — 
it  seems  so  coarse  and  vulgar,  so  dry  and  inanimate ! 
There  is  something  like  injustice  in  this  preference  —  but 
no!  it  is  a  tribute  to  the  spirit  that  is  in  the  man.  Mr. 
Northcote's  manner  is  completely  extempore.  It  is  just 
the  reverse  of  Mr.  Canning's  oratory.  All  his  thoughts 
come  upon  him  unawares,  and  for  this  reason  they  surprise 
and  delight  you,  because  they  have  evidently  the  same  effect 
upon  his  mind.  There  is  the  same  unconsciousness  in  his 
conversation  that  has  been  pointed  out  in  Shakespear's 
dialogues;  or  you  are  startled  with  one  observation  after 
another,  as  when  the  mist  gradually  withdraws  from  a 
landscape  and  unfolds  objects  one  by  one.  His  figure  is 
small,  shadowy,  emaciated;  but  you  think  only  of  his  face, 
which  is  line  and  expressive.  His  body  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. It  is  impossible  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
naivete,  and  unaffected,  but  delightful  ease  of  the  way  in 
which  he  goes  on  —  now  touching  upon  a  picture  —  now 
looking  for  his  snuff-box  —  now  alluding  to  some  book  he 
has  been  reading  —  now  returning  to  his  favourite  art.  He 
seems  just  as  if  he  was  by  himself  or  in  the  company  of  his 
own  thoughts,  and  makes  you  feel  quite  at  home.  If  it  is  a 
Member  of  Parliament,  or  a  beautiful  woman,  or  a  child, 
or  a  young  artist  that  drops  in,  it  makes  no  difference; 
he  enters  into  conversation  with  them  in  the  same  uncon- 
strained manner,  as  if  they  were  inmates  in  his  family. 
Sometimes  you  find  him  sitting  on  the  floor,  like  a  school- 
boy at  play,  turning  over  a  set  of  old  prints;  and  I  was 
pleased  to  hear  him  say  the  other  day,  coming  to  one  of  some 
men  putting  off  in  a  boat  from  a  shipwreck  —  "  That  is  the 
grandest  and  most  original  thing  I  ever  did!"  This  was 
280 


The  Talkers 

not  egotism,  but  had  all  the  beauty  of  truth  and  sin- 
cerity. .  .  . 

He  has  alwaj's  some  pat  allusion  or  anecdote.  A  young 
engraver  came  into  his  room  the  other  day,  with  a  print 
which  he  had  put  into  the  crown  of  his  hat  in  order  not 
to  crumple  it,  and  he  said  it  had  been  nearly  blown  away 
several  times  in  passing  along  the  street.  "You  put  me  in 
mind,"  said  Northcotc,  "of  a  bird-catcher  at  Plymouth, 
who  used  to  put  the  birds  he  had  caught  into  his  hat  to 
bring  them  home,  and  one  day  meeting  my  father  in  the 
road,  he  pulled  off  his  hat  to  make  him  a  low  bow,  and  all 
the  birds  flew  away!"  Sometimes  Mr.  Northcote  gets  to 
the  top  of  a  ladder  to  paint  a  palm-tree  or  to  finish  a  sky  in 
one  of  his  pictures;  and  in  this  situation  he  listens  very 
attentively  to  anything  you  tell  him.  I  was  once  mention- 
ing some  strange  inconsistencies  of  our  modern  poets;  and 
on  coming  to  one  that  exceeded  the  rest,  he  descended  the 
steps  of  the  ladder  one  by  one,  laid  his  pallet  and  brushes 
deliberately  on  the  ground,  and  coming  up  to  me,  said  — 
"You  don't  say  so,  it's  the  very  thing  I  should  have  sup- 
posed of  them :  yet  these  are  the  men  that  speak  against 
Pope  and  Dryden."  Never  any  sarcasms  were  so  line,  so 
cutting,  so  careless  as  his.  The  grossest  things  from  his 
lips  seem  an  essence  of  refinement:  the  most  refined  be- 
came more  so  than  ever.  Hear  him  talk  of  Pope's  Epistle 
to  Jervas,  and  repeat  the  lines  — 

Yet  should  the  Graces  all  thy  figures  place, 
And  breathe  an  air  divine  on  every  face; 
Yet  should  the  Muses  bid  my  numbers  roll 
Strong;  as  their  charms,  and  (gentle  as  their  soul, 
With  Zeu.\is'  Helen  thy  BridRcwater  vie, 
And  these  be  sunj;  till  (Jranville's  Myra  die: 
Alas!  how  little  from  the  ^ravc  we  claim; 
Thou  but  preserv'st  a  face,  and  I  a  name. 

281 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Or  let  him  speak  of  Boccaccio  and  his  story  of  IsabeUa 
and  her  pot  of  basil,  in  which  she  kept  her  lover's  head 
and  watered  it  with  her  tears,  "and  how  it  grew,  and  it 
grew,  and  it  grew,"  and  you  see  his  own  eyes  glisten,  and 
the  leaves  of  the  basil-tree  tremble  to  his  faltering  accents ! 

W.  Hazlitt 


282 


XX 

TWO   BOOKWORMS 

The  Literary  Antiquary       ^o        <:i^        ^iy        -«Qy 

'  I  ""HE  squire  receives  great  S)Tnpathy  and  support,  in 
-'-  his  antiquated  humours,  from  the  parson,  of  whom 
I  made  some  mention  on  my  former  visit  to  the  Hall, 
and  who  acts  as  a  kind  of  family  chaplain.  He  has  been 
cherished  by  the  squire  almost  constantly  since  the  time 
that  they  were  fellow -students  at  Oxford ;  for  it  is  one  of 
the  peculiar  advantages  of  these  great  universities,  that 
they  often  link  the  poor  scholar  to  the  rich  patron,  by 
early  and  heart-felt  tics,  that  last  through  life,  without  the 
usual  humiliations  of  dependence  and  patronage.  Under 
the  fostering  protection  of  the  squire,  therefore,  the  little 
parson  has  pursued  his  studies  in  peace.  Having  lived 
almost  entirely  among  books,  and  those,  too,  old  books, 
he  is  quite  ignorant  of  the  world,  and  his  mind  is  as  anti- 
quated as  the  garden  at  the  Hall,  where  the  flowers  are  all 
arranged  in  formal  beds,  and  the  yew-trees  clipped  into 
urns  and  peacocks. 

His  taste   for  literary  antiquities  was  first  imbibed  in 
the  Bodleian  Library  at  Oxford;   where,  when  a  student, 
he  passed  many  an  hour  foraging  among  the  old  manu- 
scripts.    He  has  since,  at  dilTcrcnt  times,  visited  most  of 
28.? 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

the  curious  libraries  in  England,  and  has  ransacked  many 
of  the  cathedrals.  With  all  his  quaint  and  curious  learn- 
ing, he  has  nothing  of  arrogance  or  pedantry;  but  that  un- 
affected earnestness  and  guileless  simplicity  which  seem  to 
belong  to  the  literary  antiquary. 

He  is  a  dark,  mouldy  little  man,  and  rather  dry  in  his 
manner:  yet,  on  his  favourite  theme,  he  kindles  up,  and 
at  times  is  even  eloquent.  No  fox-hunter,  recounting  his 
last  day's  sport,  could  be  more  animated  than  I  have  seen 
the  worthy  parson,  when  relating  his  search  after  a 
curious  document,  which  he  had  traced  from  library  to 
library,  until  he  fairly  unearthed  it  in  the  dusty  chapter- 
house of  a  cathedral.  When,  too,  he  describes  some 
venerable  manuscript,  with  its  rich  illuminations,  its  thick 
creamy  vellum,  its  glossy  ink,  and  the  odour  of  the  cloisters 
that  seemed  to  exhale  from  it,  he  rivals  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  Parisian  epicure,  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  Perigord 
pie,  or  a  Pate  de  Strasbourg. 

His  brain  seems  absolutely  haunted  with  love-sick 
dreams  about  gorgeous  old  works  in  "silk  linings,  triple 
gold  bands,  and  tinted  leather,  locked  up  in  wire  cases, 
and  secured  from  the  vulgar  hands  of  the  mere  reader"; 
and,  to  continue  the  happy  expressions  of  an  ingenious 
writer,  "dazzling  one's  eyes  like  eastern  beauties,  peering 
through  their  jealousies."  ' 

He  has  a  great  desire,  however,  to  read  such  works  in 
the  old  libraries  and  chapter-houses  to  which  they  belong; 
for  he  thinks  a  black-letter  volume  reads  best  in  one  of 
those  venerable  chambers  where  the  light  struggles  through 
dusty  lancet  windows  and  painted  glass;  and  that  it  loses 
half  its  zest  if  taken  away  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
quaintly-carved  oaken  bookcase  and  Gothic  reading-desk. 
1  D'lsraeli,  Curiosities  of  Literature. 
284 


Two   Bookworms 

At  his  suggestion  the  squire  has  had  the  Ht^rary  furnished 
in  this  antique  taste,  and  several  of  the  windows  glazed 
with  painted  glass,  that  they  may  throw  a  properly  tem- 
pered light  upon  the  pages  of  their  favourite  old  authors. 

The  parson,  I  am  told,  has  been  for  some  time  meditat- 
ing a  commentary  on  Strutt,  Brand,  and  Douce,  in  which 
he  means  to  detect  them  in  sundry  dangerous  errors  in 
respect  to  popular  games  and  superstitions;  a  work  to 
which  the  squire  looks  forward  with  great  interest.  He  is, 
also,  a  casual  contributor  to  that  long-established  repository 
of  national  customs  and  antiquities,  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  and  is  one  of  those  that  every  now  and  then 
make  an  inquiry  concerning  some  obsolete  customs  or  rare 
legend;  nay,  it  is  said  that  several  of  his  communications 
have  been  at  least  si.x  inches  in  length.  He  frequently 
receives  parcels  by  coach  from  different  parts  of  the  king- 
dom, containing  mouldy  volumes  and  almost  illegible 
manuscripts;  for  it  is  singular  what  an  active  correspond- 
ence is  kept  up  among  literary  antiquaries,  and  how  soon 
the  fame  of  any  rare  volume,  or  unique  copy,  just  dis- 
covered among  the  rubbish  of  a  library,  is  circulated  among 
them.  The  parson  is  more  busy  than  common  just  now, 
being  a  little  flurried  by  an  advertisement  of  a  work,  said 
to  be  preparing  for  the  press,  on  the  mythology  of  the  middle 
ages.  The  little  man  has  long  been  gathering  together 
all  the  hobgoblin  tales  he  could  collect,  illustrative  of  the 
superstitions  of  former  times;  and  he  is  in  a  complete 
fever,  lest  this  formidable  rival  should  take  the  field  before 
him. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  at  the  Hall,  I  called  at  the  par- 
sonage, in  company  with  Mr.  Braccbridge  and  the  general. 
The  parson  had  not  been  seen  for  several  days,  which 
was  a  matter  of  some  surprise,  as  he  was  an  almost  dailv 
285 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

visitor  at  the  Hall.  We  found  him  in  his  study;  a  small 
dusky  chamber,  lighted  by  a  lattice  window  that  looked 
into  the  churchyard,  and  was  overshadowed  by  a  yew- 
tree.  His  chair  was  surrounded  by  folios  and  quartos, 
piled  upon  the  floor,  and  his  table  was  covered  with  books 
and  manuscripts.  The  cause  of  his  seclusion  was  a  work 
which  he  had  recently  received,  and  with  which  he  had 
retired  in  rapture  from  the  world,  and  shut  himself  up 
to  enjoy  a  literary  honeymoon  undisturbed.  Never  did 
boarding-school  girl  devour  the  pages  of  a  sentimental 
novel,  or  Don  Quixote  a  chivalrous  romance,  with  more 
intense  delight  than  did  the  little  man  banquet  on  the  pages 
of  this  delicious  work.  It  was  Dibdin's  Bibliographical 
Tour;  a  work  calculated  to  have  as  intoxicating  an  effect 
on  the  imaginations  of  literary  antiquaries,  as  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  on  all  true 
knights;  or  the  tales  of  the  early  American  voyagers  on 
the  ardent  spirits  of  the  age,  filling  them  with  dreams  of 
Mexican  and  Peruvian  mines,  and  of  the  golden  realm  of 
El  Dorado. 

The  good  parson  had  looked  forward  to  this  Biblio- 
graphical expedition  as  of  far  greater  importance  than  those 
to  Africa,  or  the  North  Pole.  With  what  eagerness  had 
he  seized  upon  the  history  of  the  enterprise!  with  what 
interest  had  he  followed  the  redoubtable  bibliographer 
and  his  graphical  squire  in  their  adventurous  roamings 
among  Norman  castles  and  cathedrals,  and  French  libraries, 
and  German  convents  and  universities;  penetrating  into 
the  prison  houses  of  vellum  manuscripts,  and  exquisitely 
illuminated  missals,  and  reveahng  their  beauties  to 'the 
world ! 

When  the  parson  had  finished  a  rapturous  eulogy  on 
this  most  curious  and  entertaining  work,  he  drew  forth 
286 


Two   Bookworms 

from  a  little  drawer  a  manuscript,  lately  received  from  a 
correspondent,  which  had  perplexed  him  sadly.  It  was 
written  in  Norman  French,  in  very  ancient  characters, 
and  so  faded  and  mouldered  away  as  to  be  almost  illegible. 
It  was  apparently  an  old  Norman  drinking  song,  that 
might  have  been  brought  over  by  one  of  William  the 
Conqueror's  carousing  followers.  The  writing  was  just 
legible  enough  to  keep  a  keen  antiquity  hunter  on  a  doubt- 
ful chase;  here  and  there  he  would  be  completely  thrown 
out,  and  then  there  would  be  a  few  words  so  plainly  written 
as  to  put  him  on  the  scent  again.  In  this  way  he  had  been 
led  on  for  a  whole  day,  until  he  had  found  himself  com- 
pletely at  fault. 

The  squire  endeavoured  to  assist  him,  but  was  equally 
baffled.  The  old  general  listened  for  some  time  to  the 
discussion,  and  then  asked  the  parson,  if  he  had  read 
Captain  Morris's,  or  George  Stevens',  or  Anacreon  Moore's 
bacchanalian  songs;  on  the  other  replying  in  the  negative, 
"Oh,  then,"  said  the  general,  with  a  sagacious  nod,  "if 
you  want  a  drinking  song,  I  can  furnish  you  with  the 
latest  collection  —  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  turn  for  those 
kmd  of  things;  and  I  can  lend  you  the  Encyclopedia  of 
li^?/ into  the  l)argain.  I  never  travel  without  them ;  they're 
excellent  reading  at  an  inn." 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  the  odd  look  of  surprise 
and  perplexity  of  the  parson,  at  this  proposal;  or  the 
difTiculty  the  squire  had  in  making  the  general  compre- 
hend, that  though  a  jovial  song  of  the  present  day  was  but 
a  foolish  sound  in  the  ears  of  wisdom,  and  beneath  the 
notice  of  a  learned  man,  yet  a  trovvl,  written  by  a  tosspot 
several  hundred  years  since,  was  a  matter  worthy  of  the 
gravest  research,  and  enough  to  set  whole  colleges  by  the 
ears. 

287 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

I  have  since  pondered  much  on  this  matter,  and  have 
figured  to  myself  what  may  be  the  fate  of  our  current 
literature,  when  retrieved,  piecemeal,  by  future  anti- 
quaries, from  among  the  rubbish  of  ages.  What  a  Magnus 
Apollo,  for  instance,  will  Moore  become,  among  sober 
divines  and  dusty  schoolmen !  Even  his  festive  and 
amatory  songs,  which  are  now  the  mere  quickeners  of 
our  social  moments,  or  the  delights  of  our  drawing-rooms, 
will  then  become  matters  of  laborious  research  and  pain- 
ful collation.  How  many  a  grave  professor  will  then 
waste  his  midnight  oil,  or  worry  his  brain  through  a  long 
morning,  endeavouring  to  restore  the  pure  text,  or  illustrate 
the  biographical  hints  of  "Come,  tell  me,  says  Rosa,  as 
kissing  and  kissed" ;  and  how  many  an  arid  old  bookworm, 
like  the  worthy  little  parson,  will  give  up  in  despair,  after 
vainly  striving  to  fill  up  some  fatal  hiatus  in  "Fanny  of 
Timmol" ! 

Nor  is  it  merely  such  exquisite  authors  as  Moore  that 
are  doomed  to  consume  the  oil  of  future  antiquaries. 
Many  a  poor  scribbler,  who  is  now,  apparently,  sent  to 
oblivion  by  pastry-cooks,  and  cheesemongers,  will  then 
rise  again  in  fragments,  and  flourish  in  learned  immortality. 

Washington  Irving 

George  Dyer  ^;^        o        •'v>        '^^y        "O      ^o 


AS  there  is  a  class  of  the  first  character  which  sinks 
into  the  mere  gentleman,  that  is,  which  has  nothing 
but  this  sense  of  respectability  and  propriety  to  support 
it  —  so  the  character  of  a  scholar  not  unfrequently  dwindles 
down  into  the  shadow  of  a  shade,  till  nothing  is  left  of  it 
288 


Two   Bookworms 

but  the  mere  bookworm.  There  is  often  something 
amiable  as  well  as  enviable  in  this  last  character.  I 
know  one  such  instance,  at  least.  The  person  I  mean  has 
an  admiration  for  learning,  if  he  is  only  dazzled  by  its 
light.  He  lives  among  old  authors,  if  he  does  not  enter 
much  into  their  spirit.  He  handles  the  covers,  and  turns 
over  the  page,  and  is  familiar  with  the  names  and  dates. 
He  is  busy  and  self-involved.  He  hangs  like  a  film  and 
cobweb  upon  letters,  or  is  like  the  dust  upon  the  outside 
of  knowledge,  which  should  not  be  rudely  brushed  aside. 
He  follows  learning  as  its  shadow;  but  as  such,  he  is 
respectable.  He  browzes  on  the  husk  and  leaves  of  books, 
as  the  young  fawn  browzes  on  the  bark  and  leaves  of  trees. 
Such  a  one  lives  all  his  life  in  a  dream  of  learning,  and  has 
never  once  had  his  sleep  broken  by  a  real  sense  of  things. 
He  believes  implicitly  in  genius,  truth,  virtue,  liberty, 
because  he  finds  the  names  of  these  things  in  books.  He 
thinks  that  love  and  friendship  are  the  finest  things  im- 
aginable, both  in  practice  and  theory.  The  legend  of 
good  women  is  to  him  no  fiction.  When  he  steals  from 
the  twilight  of  his  cell,  the  scene  breaks  upon  him  like  an 
illuminated  missal,  and  all  the  people  he  sees  are  but  so 
many  figures  in  a  camera  obscura.  He  reads  the  world, 
like  a  favourite  volume,  only  to  find  beauties  in  it,  or  like 
an  edition  of  some  old  work  which  he  is  preparing  for  the 
press,  only  to  make  emendations  in  it,  and  correct  the 
errors  that  have  inadvertently  slipt  in.  He  and  his  dog 
Tray  are  much  the  same  honest,  simple-hearted,  faithful, 
affectionate  creatures  —  if  Tray  could  but  read !  His 
mind  cannot  take  the  impression  of  vice:  but  the  gentle- 
ness of  his  nature  turns  gall  to  milk.  He  would  not  hurt 
a  fly.  He  draws  the  picture  of  mankind  from  the  guileless 
simplicity  of  his  own  heart:  and  when  he  dies,  his  spirit 
u  289 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

will  take  its  smiling  leave,  without  having  ever  had  an  ill 
thought  of  others,  or  the  consciousness  of  one  in  itself. 

W.  Hazliit 

II 

I  LEAVE  these  curiositities  to  Person,  and  to  G.  D. — 
whom,  by  the  way,  I  found  busy  as  a  moth  over  some 
rotten  archive,  rummaged  out  of  some  seldom-explored 
press,  in  a  nook  at  Oriel.  With  long  poring,  he  is  grown 
almost  into  a  book.  He  stood  as  passive  as  one  by  the 
side  of  the  old  shelves.  I  longed  to  new-coat  him  in 
russia,  and  assign  him  his  place.  He  might  have  mustered 
for  a  tall  Scapula. 

D.  is  assiduous  in  his  visits  to  these  seats  of  learning. 
No  inconsiderable  portion  of  his  moderate  fortune,  I 
apprehend,  is  consumed  in  journeys  between  them  and 

Clifford's-inn where,  like  a  dove  on  the  asp's  nest, 

he  has  long  taken  up  his  unconscious  abode,  amid  an  in- 
congruous assembly  of  attorneys,  attorneys'  clerks,  ap- 
paritors, promoters,  vermin  of  the  law,  among  whom  he 
sits,  "in  calm  and  sinless  peace."  The  fangs  of  the  law 
pierce  him  not  —  the  winds  of  litigation  blow  over  his 
humble  chambers  —  the  hard  sheriff's  officer  moves  his 
hat  as  he  passes  —  legal  nor  illegal  discourtesy  touches 
him  —  none  thinks  of  offering  violence  or  injustice  to  him 
—  you  would  as  soon  "strike  an  abstract  idea." 

D.  has  been  engaged,  he  tells  me,  through  a  course  of 
laborious  years,  in  an  investigation  into  all  curious  matter 
connected  with  the  two  Universities;    and  has  lately  lit 

upon    a   MS.   collection    of   charters,    relative   to  C , 

by  which  he  hopes  to  settle  some  disputed  points  —  par- 
ticularly that  long  controversy  between  them  as  to  priority 
of  foundation.  The  ardour  with  which  he  engages  in 
290 


Two   Bookworms 

these  liberal  pursuits,  I  am  afraid,  has  not  met  with  all 

the  encouragement  it  deserved,  either  here,  or  at  C . 

Your  caputs,  and  heads  of  colleges,  care  less  than  any- 
body else  about  these  questions.  —  Contented  to  suck  the 
milky  fountains  of  their  Alma  Maters,  without  inquiring 
into  the  venerable  gentlewomen's  years,  they  rather  hold 
such  curiosities  to  be  impertinent  —  unreverend.  They 
have  their  good  glebe  lands  in  manu,  and  care  not  much 
to  rake  into  the  title-deeds.  I  gather  at  least  so  much 
from  other  sources,  for  D.  is  not  a  man  to  complain. 

D.  started  Hke  an  unbroke  heifer,  when  I  interrupted 
him.  A  priori  it  was  not  very  probable  that  we  should 
have  met  in  Oriel.  But  D.  would  have  done  the  same, 
had  I  accosted  him  on  the  sudden  in  his  own  walks  in 
Clifford's-inn,  or  in  the  Temple.  In  addition  to  a  pro- 
voking short-sightedness  (the  effect  of  late  studies  and 
watchings  at  the  midnight  oil)  D.  is  the  most  absent  of 
men.  He  made  a  call  the  other  morning  at  our  friend 
M.'s  in  Bedford-square;  and,  finding  nobody  at  home, 
was  ushered  into  the  hall,  where,  asking  for  pen  and  ink, 
with  great  exactitude  of  purpose  he  enters  me  his  name 
in  the  book  —  which  ordinarily  lies  about  in  such  places, 
to  record  the  failures  of  the  untimely  or  unfortunate  visitor 
—  and  takes  his  leave  with  many  ceremonies,  and  pro- 
fessions of  regret.  Some  two  or  three  hours  after,  his 
walking  destinies  returned  him  into  the  same  neighbour- 
hood again,  and  again  the  quiet  image  of  the  fireside  circle 
at  M.'s  —  Mrs.  M.  presiding  at  it  like  a  Queen  Lar  with 
pretty  A.  S.  at  her  side  —  striking irrcsistilily  on  his  fancy, 
he  makes  another  call  (forgetting  that  they  were  "certainly 
not  to  return  from  the  country  before  that  day  week")  and 
disappointed  a  second  lime,  inquires  for  pen  and  paper  as 
before :  again  the  book  is  brought,  and  in  the  line  just  above 
291 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

that  in  which  he  is  about  to  print  his  second  name  (his 
re-script)  —  his  first  name  (scarce  dry)  looks  out  upon 
him  like  another  Sosia,  or  as  if  a  man  should  suddenly 
encounter  his  own  duplicate!  —  The  effect  may  be  con- 
ceived. D.  made  many  a  good  resolution  against  ^any 
such  lapses  in  future.  I  hope  he  will  not  keep  them  too 
rigorously. 

For  with  G.  D.  —  to  be  absent  from  the  body,  is  some- 
times (not  to  speak  it  profanely)  to  be  present  with  the 
Lord.     At    the  very  time    when,  personally  encountering 

thee,    he    passes   on   with   no    recognition or,    being 

stopped,  starts  like  a  thing  surprised  —  at  that  moment, 
reader,  he  is  on  Mount  Tabor  —  or  Parnassus  —  or 
CO -sphered  with  Plato  —  or,  with  Harrington,  framing 
"immortal    commonwealths"  —  devising    some    plan    of 

amelioration    to  thy  country,   or  thy  species perad- 

venture  meditating  some  individual  kindness  or  courtesy, 
to  be  done  to  thee  thyself,  the  returning  consciousness  of 
which  made  him  to  start  so  guiltily  at  thy  obtruded  per- 
sonal presence. 

D.  is  delightful  anywhere,  but  he  is  at  the  best  in  such 
places  as  these.  He  cares  not  much  for  Bath.  He  is 
out  of  his  element  at  Buxton,  Scarborough,  or  Harrow- 
gate.  The  Cam  and  the  Isis  are  to  him  "better  than  all 
the  Waters  of  Damascus."  On  the  Muses'  hill  he  is  happy, 
and  good,  as  one  of  the  Shepherds  on  the  Delectable 
Mountains ;  and  when  he  goes  about  with  you  to  show  you 
the  halls  and  colleges,  you  think  you  have  with  you  the 
Interpreter  at  the  House  Beautiful. 

Charles  Lamb 


292 


XXI 

COLLECTORS 

R.        "O  ''O  'v^  ^v>  ''O  "siy  "Cy 

THE  barber's  shop  was  a  museum,  scarce  second  to 
the  larger  one  of  Greenwood  in  the  metropoHs.  The 
boy  wno  was  to  be  cHpped  there  was  always  accompanied 
to  the  sacrifice  by  troops  of  friends,  who  thus  inspected 
the  curiosities  gratis.  While  the  watchful  eye  of  R. 
wandered  to  keep  in  check  these  rather  unscrupulous 
explorers  the  unpausing  shears  would  sometimes  overstep 
the  boundaries  of  strict  tonsorial  prescription,  and  make 
a  notch  through  which  the  phrenological  developments 
could  be  distinctly  seen.  As  Michael  Angelo's  design  was 
modified  by  the  shape  of  his  block,  so  R.,  rigid  in  artistic 
jjroprieties,  would  contrive  to  give  an  appearance  of  design 
to  this  aberration,  by  making  it  the  keynote  to  his  work, 
and  reducing  the  whole  head  to  an  appearance  of  pre- 
mature baldness.  What  a  charming  place  it  was,  —  how 
full  of  wonder  and  delight !  The  sunny  little  room,  front- 
ing south-west  upon  the  Common,  rang  with  canaries  and 
Java  sparrows,  nor  were  the  familiar  notes  of  robin,  thrush, 
and  bobolink  wanting.  A  large  white  cockatoo  harangued 
vaguely,  at  intervals,  in  what  we  believed  (on  R.'s  au- 
thority) to  \)C  the  Hottentot  language.     He  had  an  un- 

293 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

veracious  air,  but  what  inventions  of  former  grandeur  he 
was  indulging  in,  what  sweet  South  African  Argos  he  was 
remembering,  what  tropical  heats  and  giant  trees  by  un- 
conjectured  rivers,  known  only  to  the  wallowing  hippopota- 
mus, we  could  only  guess  at.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
curious  old  Dutch  prints,  beaks  of  albatross  and  penguin, 
and  whales'  teeth  fantastically  engraved.  There  was 
Frederick  the  Great,  with  head  drooped  plottingly,  and 
keen  side-long  glance  from  under  the  three-cornered  hat. 
There  hung  Bonaparte,  too,  the  long-haired,  haggard 
general  of  Italy,  his  eyes  sombre  with  prefigured  destiny; 
and  there  was  his  island  grave;  —  the  dream  and  the  ful- 
filment. Good  store  of  sea-fights  there  was  also;  above 
all,  Paul  Jones  in  the  Bonhomme  Richard:  the  smoke 
rolling  courteously  to  leeward,  that  we  might  see  him  deal- 
ing thunderous  wreck  to  the  two  hostile  vessels,  each  twice  as 
large  as  his  own,  and  the  reality  of  the  scene  corroborated 
by  streaks  of  red  paint  leaping  from  the  mouth  of  every 
gun. 

Suspended  over  the  fire-place,  with  the  curling-tongs, 
were  an  Indian  bow  and  arrows,  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
room  stood  New  Zealand  paddles  and  war-clubs,  quaintly 
carved.  The  model  of  a  ship  in  glass  we  variously  esti- 
mated to  be  worth  from  a  hundred  to  a  thousand  dollars, 
R.  rather  favouring  the  higher  valuation,  though  never 
distinctly  committing  himself.  Among  these  wonders, 
the  only  suspicious  one  was  an  Indian  tomahawk,  which 
had  too  much  the  peaceful  look  of  a  shingling-hatchet. 
Did  any  rarity  enter  the  town,  it  gravitated  naturally  to 
these  walls,  to  the  very  nail  that  waited  to  receive  it,  and 
where,  the  day  after  its  accession,  it  seemed  to  have  hung 
a  life  time.  We  always  had  a  theory  that  R.  was  immensely 
rich  (how  could  he  possess  so  much  and  be  otherwise?), 
294 


Collectors 

and  that  he  pursued  his  calling  from  an  amiable  eccentricity. 
He  was  a  conscientious  artist,  and  never  submitted  it  to 
the  choice  of  his  victim  whether  he  would  be  perfumed  or 
not. 

Faithfully  was  the  bottle  shaken  and  the  odoriferous 
mixture  rubbed  in,  a  fact  redolent  to  the  whole  school- 
room in  the  afternoon.  Sometimes  the  persuasive  tonsor 
would  impress  one  of  the  attendant  volunteers,  and  reduce 
his  poll  to  shoebrush  crispness,  at  cost  of  the  reluctant 
ninepence  hoarded  for  Fresh  Pond  and  the  next  half- 
holiday. 

So  purely  indigenous  was  our  population  then,  that  R. 
had  a  certain  exotic  charm,  a  kind  of  game-flavour,  by 
being  a  Dutchman. 

/.  R.  Lowell 

John  Lamb  (James  Elia)     -;^        -ci,.        ^vi.        <:>,k 

JAMES  is  an  inexplicable  cousin.  Nature  hath  her 
unities,  which  not  every  critic  can  penetrate;  or,  if 
we  feel,  we  cannot  explain  them.  The  pen  of  Yorick, 
and  of  none  since  his,  could  have  drawn  J.  E.  entire  — 
those  fine  Shandean  lights  and  shades,  which  make  up 
his  stor)'.  I  must  limp  after  in  my  poor  antithetical 
manner,  as  the  fates  have  given  me  grace  and  talent. 
J.  E.  then  —  to  the  eyes  of  a  common  observer  at  least  — 
seemeth  made  up  of  contradictory  principles.  —  The 
genuine  child  of  impul.se,  the  frigid  phil<)so[)her  of  pru- 
dence —  the  phlegm  of  my  cousin's  doctrine,  is  invariably 
at  war  with  his  temperament,  which  is  high  sanguine. 
With  always  some  fire-new  project  in  his  brain.  J.  E.  is 
the  systematic  opponent  of  innovation,  and  crier  down  of 
everything  that  has  not  stood  the  test  of  age  and  cxpt-ri- 
295 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

ment.  With  a  hundred  fine  notions  chasing  one  another 
hourly  in  his  fancy,  he  is  startled  at  the  least  approach  to 
the  romantic  in  others;  and,  determined  by  his  own  sense 
in  everything,  commends  you  to  the  guidance  of  common 
sense  on  all  occasions.  —  With  a  touch  of  the  eccentric 
in  all  which  he  does  or  says,  he  is  only  anxious  that  you 
should  not  commit  yourself  by  doing  anything  absurd  or 
singular.  On  my  once  letting  shp  at  table,  that  I  was  not 
fond  of  a  certain  popular  dish,  he  begged  me  at  any  rate 
not  to  say  so  —  for  the  world  would  think  me  mad.  He 
disguises  a  passionate  fondness  for  works  of  high  art 
(whereof  he  hath  amassed  a  choice  collection),  under  the 
pretext  of  buying  only  to  sell  again  —  that  his  enthusiasm 
may  give  no  encouragement  to  yours.  Yet,  if  it  were  so, 
why  does  that  piece  of  tender,  pastoral  Domenichino  hang 
still  by  his  wall  ?  —  is  the  ball  of  his  sight  much  more  dear 
to  him  ?  —  or  what  picture-dealer  can  talk  like  him  ? 

Whereas  mankind  in  general  are  observed  to  warp  their 
speculative  conclusions  to  the  bent  of  their  individual 
humours,  his  theories  are  sure  to  be  in  diametrical  opposi- 
tion to  his  constitution.  He  is  courageous  as  Charles  of 
Sweden,  upon  instinct;  chary  of  his  person,  upon  principle, 
as  a  travelling  Quaker.  —  He  has  been  preaching  up  to  me, 
all  my  life,  the  doctrine  of  bowing  to  the  great  —  the 
necessity  of  forms,  and  manner,  to  a  man's  getting  on  in 
the  world.  He  himself  never  aims  at  either,  that  I  can 
discover,  —  and  has  a  spirit  that  would  stand  upright  in 
the  presence  of  the  Cham  of  Tartary.  It  is  pleasant  to 
hear  him  discourse  of  patience  —  extolling  it  as  the  truest 
wisdom  —  and  to  see  him  during  the  last  seven  minutes 
that  his  dinner  is  getting  ready.  Nature  never  ran  up 
in  her  haste  a  more  restless  piece  of  workmanship  than 
when  she  moulded  this  impetuous  cousin  —  and  Art 
296 


Collectors 

never  turned  out  a  more  elaborate  orator  than  he  can  dis- 
play himself  to  be,  upon  his  favourite  topic  of  the  advan- 
tages of  quiet  and  contentedness  in  the  state,  whatever  it 
be,  that  we  are  placed  in.  He  is  triumphant  on  this  theme, 
when  he  has  you  safe  in  one  of  those  short  stages  that  ply 
for  the  western  road,  in  a  very  obstructing  manner,  at  the 
foot  of  John  Murray's  street  —  where  you  get  in  when 
it  is  empty,  and  are  expected  to  wait  till  the  vehicle  hath 
completed  her  just  freight  —  a  trying  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  to  some  people.  He  wonders  at  your  fidgetiness, 
—  "where  could  we  be  better  than  we  are,  thus  sitting, 
thus  consulting?"  —  "prefers,  for  his  part,  a  state  of  rest 
to  locomotion,"  —  with  an  eye  all  the  while  upon  the 
coachman,  —  till  at  length,  wa.xing  out  of  all  patience,  at 
your  want  of  it,  he  breaks  out  into  a  pathetic  remonstrance 
at  the  fellow  for  detaining  us  so  long  over  the  time  which 
he  had  professed,  and  declares  peremptorily,  that  "the 
gentleman  in  the  coach  is  determined  to  get  out,  if  he  does 
not  drive  on  that  instant." 

Very  quick  at  inventing  an  argument,  or  detecting  a 
sophistry,  he  is  incapable  of  attending  you  in  any  chain 
of  arguing.  Indeed,  he  makes  wild  work  with  logic; 
and  seems  to  jump  at  most  admirable  conclusions  by  some 
process  not  at  all  akin  to  it.  Consonantly  enough  to 
this,  he  hath  been  heard  to  deny,  upon  certain  occasions, 
that  there  exists  such  a  faculty  at  all  in  man  as  reason; 
and  wondereth  how  man  came  first  to  have  a  conceit  of 
it  —  enforcing  his  negation  with  all  the  might  of  reasoning 
he  is  master  of.  He  has  some  speculative  notions  against 
laughter,  and  will  maintain  that  laughing  is  not  natural 
to  him  —  when  peradventurc  the  next  moment  his  lungs 
shall  crow  like  Chanticleer.  He  says  .some  of  the  best 
things  in  the  world,  and  dcclarcth  that  wit  is  his  aversion. 
297 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

It  was  he  who  said,  upon  seeing  the  Eton  boys  at  play  in 
their  grounds  —  What  a  pity  to  think  that  these  fine  in- 
genuous lads  in  a  few  years  will  allbe  changed  into  frivolous 
Members  of  Parliament ! 

His  youth  was  fiery,  glowing,  tempestuous  —  and  in  age 
iie  discovereth  no  symptom  of  cooling.  This  is  that 
which  I  admire  in  him.  I  hate  people  who  meet  Time 
halfway.  I  am  for  no  compromise  with  that  inevitable 
spoiler.  While  he  lives,  J.  E.  will  take  his  swing.  —  It 
does  me  good,  as  I  walk  towards  the  street  of  my  daily 
avocation,  on  some  fine  May  morning,  to  meet  him  march- 
ing in  a  quite  opposite  direction,  with  a  jolly  handsome 
presence,  and  shining  sanguine  face,  that  indicates  some 
purchase  in  his  eye  —  a  Claude  —  or  a  Hobbima  —  for 
much  of  his  enviable  leisure  is  consumed  at  Christie's, 
and  Phillips's  —  or  where  not,  to  pick  up  pictures,  and 
such  gauds.  On  these  occasions  he  mostly  stoppeth  me, 
to  read  a  short  lecture  on  the  advantage  a  person  like  me 
possesses  above  himself,  in  having  his  time  occupied  with 
business  which  he  must  do  —  assureth  me  that  he  often 
feels  it  hang  heavy  on  his  hands  —  wishes  he  had  fewer 
holidays  —  and  goes  off  —  Westward  Ho !  —  chanting 
a  tune,  to  Pall  Mall  —  perfectly  convinced  that  he  has  con- 
vinced me  —  while  I  proceed  in  my  opposite  direction 
tuneless. 

It  is  pleasant,  again,  to  see  this  Professor  of  Indifference 
doing  the  honours  of  his  new  purchase,  when  he  has  fairly 
housed  it.  You  must  view  it  in  every  light,  till  he  has 
found  the  best  —  placing  it  at  this  distance,  and  at  that, 
but  always  suiting  the  focus  of  your  sight  to  his  own.  You 
must  spy  at  it  through  your  fingers,  to  catch  the  aerial 
perspective  —  though  you  assure  him  that  to  you  the  land- 
scape shows  much  more  agreeable  without  that  artifice. 
298 


Collectors 

Woe  be  to  the  luckless  wight  who  does  not  only  not  re- 
spond to  his  rapture,  but  who  should  drop  an  unseasonable 
intimation  of  preferring  one  of  his  anterior  bargains  to 
the  present !  —  The  last  is  always  his  best  hit  —  his 
"Cynthia  of  the  minute."  —  Alas!  how  many  a  mild 
Madonna  have  I  known  to  come  in  —  a  Raphael !  —  keep 
its  ascendency  for  a  few  brief  moons  —  then,  after  certain 
intermedial  degradations,  from  the  front  drawing-room  to 
the  back  gallery,  thence  to  the  dark  parlour,  —  adopted 
in  turn  by  each  of  the  Carracci,  under  successive  lowering 
ascriptions  of  filiation,  mildly  breaking  its  fall  —  consigned 
to  the  oblivious  lumber-room,  go  out  at  last  a  Lucca 
Giordano,  or  plain  Carlo  Maratti !  —  which  things  when  I 
beheld  —  musing  upon  the  chances  and  mutabilities  of 
fate  below  hath  made  me  to  reflect  upon  the  altered  con- 
dition of  great  personages,  or  that  woeful  Queen  of  Richard 

the  Second  — 

set  forth  in  pomp, 

She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May; 
Sent  back  like  Hollowmass  or  shortest  day. 

With  great  love  for  you,  J.  E.  hath  but  a  limited  sym- 
pathy with  what  you  feel  or  do.  He  lives  in  a  world  of 
his  own,  and  makes  slender  guesses  at  what  passes  in  your 
mind.  He  never  pierces  the  marrow  of  your  habits.  He 
will  tell  an  old-established  playgoer,  that  Mr.  Such-a- 
one,  of  So-and-so  (naming  one  of  the  theatres),  is  a  very 
lively  comedian  —  as  a  piece  of  news!  He  advertised  me 
but  the  other  day  of  some  pleasant  green  lanes  which  he 
had  found  out  for  me,  knowing  me  to  be  a  great  walker,  in 
my  own  immediate  vicinity  —  who  have  haunted  the  identi- 
cal spot  any  time  these  twenty  years!  —  He  has  not  much 
respect  for  that  class  of  feelings  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
sentimental.  He  applies  the  definition  of  real  evil  to  bodily 
299 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

suflFerings  exclusively — and  rejecteth  all  others  as  imaginary. 
He  is  affected  by  the  sight,  or  the  bare  supposition,  of  a 
creature  in  pain,  to  a  degree  which  I  have  never  witnessed 
out  of  womankind.  A  constitutional  acuteness  to  this 
class  of  sufferings  may  in  part  account  for  this.  The  ani- 
mal tribe  in  particular  he  taketh  under  his  especial  pro- 
tection. A  broken-winded  or  spur-galled  horse  is  sure  to 
find  an  advocate  in  him.  An  overloaded  ass  is  his  client 
for  ever.  He  is  the  apostle  to  the  brute  kind  —  and  never- 
failing  friend  of  those  who  have  none  to  care  for  them. 
The  contemplation  of  a  lobster  boiled,  or  eels  skinned 
alive,  will  wring  him  so,  that  "all  for  pity  he  could  die." 
It  will  take  the  savour  from  his  palate,  and  the  rest  from 
his  pillow,  for  days  and  nights.  With  the  intense  feeling  of 
Thomas  Clarkson,  he  wanted  only  the  steadiness  of  pur- 
suit, and  unity  of  purpose,  of  that  "true  yoke-fellow  with 
Time,"  to  have  effected  as  much  for  the  Animal  as  he 
hath  done  for  the  Negro  Creation.  But  my  uncontrollable 
cousin  is  but  imperfectly  formed  for  purposes  which  demand 
co-operation.  He  cannot  wait.  His  amelioration -plans 
must  be  ripened  in  a  day.  For  this  reason  he  has  cut  but 
an  equivocal  figure  in  benevolent  societies,  and  combina- 
tions for  the  alleviation  of  human  sufferings.  His  zeal 
constantly  makes  him  to  outrun,  and  put  out,  his  coadjutors. 
He  thinks  of  relieving,  —  while  they  think  of  debating. 
He  was  black-balled  out  of  a  society  for  the  Relief  of 
******  because  the  fervour  of  his  hu- 
manity toiled  beyond  the  formal  apprehension  and  creep- 
ing processes  of  his  associates.  I  shall  always  consider  this 
distinction  as  a  patent  of  nobility  in  the  Elia  family ! 

Do  I  mention   these  seeming    inconsistencies  to  smile 
at,  or  upbraid,  my  unique  cousin?      Marry,  heaven,  and 
all  good  manners,  and  the  understanding  that   should  be 
300 


Collectors 

between  kinsfolk,  forbid  !  —  With  all  the  strangenesses  of 
this  strangest  of  the  Elias  —  I  would  not  have  him  in  one 
jot  or  tittle  other  than  he  is;  neither  would  I  barter  or 
exchange  my  wild  kinsman  for  the  most  exact,  regular, 
and  every  way  consistent  kinsman  breathing. 

Charles  Lamb 

Carrigaholt    ^^y-        -^        -^r^        -v>        '■s^y        o 

"X  ^  THEN  I  was  there,  our  friend  Carrigaholt  had  im- 
'  '     ported  himself,    and  his  oddities  as  an  accession 
to  the  other,  and  inferior  wonders  of  Smyrna. 

I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  room  one  day  at  Constanti- 
nople, when  I  heard  Methley  approaching  my  door  with 
shouts  of  laughter  and  welcome,  and  presently  I  recog- 
nised that  peculiar  cry  by  which  our  friend  Carrigaholt 
expresses  his  emotions;  he  soon  explained  to  us  the  final 
causes  by  which  the  Fates  had  worked  out  their  wonderful 
purpose  of  bringing  him  to  Constantinople.  He  was 
always  you  know  very  fond  of  sailing,  but  he  had  got  into 
such  sad  scrapes  (including  I  think  a  lawsuit)  on  account  of 
his  last  yacht,  that  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  have  a  cruise  in 
a  merchant  vessel,  so  he  went  to  Liverpool,  and  looked 
through  the  craft  lying  ready  to  sail,  till  he  found  a  smart 
schooner  that  perfectly  suited  his  taste :  the  destination  of 
the  vessel  was  the  last  thing  he  thought  of,  and  when  he 
was  told  that  she  was  bound  for  Constantinople,  he  merely 
assented  to  that  as  a  part  of  the  arrangement  to  which  he 
had  no  objection.  As  soon  as  the  vessel  had  sailed,  the  hap- 
less passenger  discovered  that  his  skipper  carried  on  board 
an  enormous  wife  with  an  inquiring  mind,  and  an  irresis- 
tible tendency  to  impart  her  opinions.  She  looked  u])()n 
her  guest  as  upon  a  piece  of  waste  intellect  lliat  ought  to  be 

301 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

carefully  tilled.  She  tilled  him  accordingly.  If  the  Dons 
at  Oxford  could  have  seen  poor  Carrigaholt  thus  absolutely 
"attending  lectures"  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  they  would 
surely  have  thought  him  sufficiently  punished  for  all  the 
wrongs  he  did  them,  whilst  he  was  preparing  himself 
under  their  care  for  the  other  and  more  boisterous  Univer- 
sity. The  voyage  did  not  last  more  than  six  or  eight  weeks, 
and  the  philosophy  inflicted  on  Carrigaholt  was  not  entirely 
fatal  to  him;  certainly  he  was  somewhat  emaciated,  and 
for  aught  I  know,  he  may  have  subscribed  somewhat  too 
largely  to  the  "Feminine-right-of-reason  Society";  but  it 
did  not  appear  that  his  health  had  been  seriously  affected. 
There  was  a  scheme  on  foot,  it  would  seem,  for  taking  the 
passenger  back  to  England  in  the  same  schooner  —  a 
scheme,  in  fact,  for  keeping  him  perpetually  afloat,  and  per- 
petually saturated  with  arguments;  but  when  Carrigaholt 
found  himself  ashore,  and  remembered  that  the  skipperina, 
(who  had  imprudently  remained  on  board,)  was  not  there 
to  enforce  her  suggestions,  he  was  open  to  the  hints  of  his 
servant  (a  very  sharp  fellow),  who  arranged  a  plan  for 
escaping,  and  finally  brought  off  his  master  to  Giuseppini's 
Hotel. 

Our  friend  afterwards  went  by  sea  to  Smyrna,  and  there 
he  now  was  in  his  glory.  He  had  a  good,  or  at  all  events  a 
gentleman-like  judgment  in  matters  of  taste,  and  as  his 
great  object  was  to  surround  himself  with  all  that  his  fancy 
could  dictate,  he  lived  in  a  state  of  perpetual  negotiation ; 
he  was  for  ever  on  the  point  of  purchasing,  not  only  the 
material  productions  of  the  place,  but  all  sorts  of  such  fine 
ware  as  "intelligence,"  "fidelity,"  and  so  on.  He  was 
most  curious,  however,  as  the  purchaser  of  the  "affections." 
Sometimes  he  would  imagine  that  he  had  a  marital  aptitude, 
and  his  fancy  would  sketch  a  graceful  picture  in  which  he 
302 


Collectors 

appeared  reclining  on  a  divan,  with  a  beautiful  Greek 
woman  fondly  couched  at  his  feet,  and  soothing  him  with 
the  witchery  of  her  guitar;  having  satisfied  himself 
with  the  ideal  picture  thus  created,  he  would  pass  into 
action ;  the  guitar  he  would  buy  instantly,  and  would  give 
such  intimations  of  his  wish  to  be  wedded  to  a  Greek,  as 
could  not  fail  to  produce  great  excitement  in  the  families 
of  the  beautiful  Smyrniotcs.  Then  again,  (and  just  in 
time  perhaps  to  save  him  from  the  yoke),  his  dream  would 
pass  away,  and  another  would  come  in  its  stead ;  he  would 
suddenly  feel  the  yearnings  of  a  father's  love,  and  willing 
by  force  of  gold  to  transcend  all  natural  preliminaries,  he 
would  issue  instructions  for  the  purchase  of  some  dutiful 
child  that  could  be  warranted  to  love  him  as  a  parent. 
Then  at  another  time  he  would  be  convinced  that  the 
attachment  of  menials  might  satisfy  the  longings  of  his 
affectionate  heart,  and  thereupon  he  would  give  orders  to 
his  slave-merchant  for  something  in  the  way  of  eternal 
fidelity.  You  may  well  imagine  that  this  anxiety  of  Car- 
rigaholt  to  purchase  (not  only  the  scenery)  l)ut  the  many 
dramatis  personce  belonging  to  his  dreams,  with  all  their 
goodness  and  graces  complete,  necessarily  gave  an  im- 
mense stimulus  to  the  trade  and  intrigue  of  Smyrna,  and 
created  a  demand  for  human  virtues  which  the  moral 
resources  of  the  place  were  totally  inadequate  to  supply. 
P^very  day  after  breakfast  this  lover  of  the  Good  and  the 
Beautiful  held  a  levee:  in  his  ante-room  there  would  l)e  not 
only  the  .sellers  of  pipes  and  slippers  and  shawls  and  such 
like  Oriental  merchandise,  not  only  embroiderers,  and 
cunning  workmen  patiently  striving  to  realise  his  visions  of 
Albanian  dresses  —  not  only  the  servants  offering  for 
places,  and  the  slave-dealer  tendering  his  sable  ware, 
but  there  would  be  the  Greek  master,  waiting  to  teach  his 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

pupil  the  grammar  of  the  soft  Ionian  tongue  in  which  he 
was  to  deUght  the  wife  of  his  imagination,  and  the  music- 
master  who  was  to  teach  him  some  sweet  repHes  to  the  an- 
ticipated tones  of  the  fancied  guitar;  and  then,  above  all, 
and  proudly  eminent  with  undisputed  preference  of  entree, 
and  fraught  with  the  mysterious  tidings  on  which  the  reali- 
sation of  the  whole  dream  might  depend,  was  the  mysteri- 
ous match-maker,  enticing  and  postponing  the  suitor,  yet 
ever  keeping  alive  in  his  soul  the  love  of  that  pictured  virtue, 
whose  beauty  (unseen  by  eyes)  was  half  revealed  to  the 
imagination. 

You  would  have  thought  that  this  practical  dreaming 
must  have  soon  brought  Carrigaholt  to  a  bad  end,  but  he 
was  in  much  less  danger  than  might  be  supposed:  for 
besides  that  the  new  visions  of  happinesss  almost  always 
came  in  time  to  counteract  the  fatal  completion  of  the 
preceding  scheme,  his  high  breeding  and  his  delicately 
sensitive  taste  almost  always  befriended  him  at  times 
when  he  was  left  without  any  other  protection;  and  the 
efficacy  of  these  qualities  in  keeping  a  man  out  of  harm's 
way  is  really  immense;  in  all  baseness  and  imposture 
there  is  a  coarse,  vulgar  spirit,  which,  however  artfully 
concealed  for  a  time,  must  sooner  or  later  shew  itself  in 
some  little  circumstance  sufficiently  plain  to  occasion  an 
instant  jar  upon  the  minds  of  those  whose  taste  is  lively 
and  true ;  to  such  men  a  shock  of  this  kind,  disclosing  the 
ugliness  of  a  cheat,  is  more  effectively  convincing  than  any 
mere  proofs  could  be. 

Thus  guarded  from  isle  to  isle,  and  through  Greece 
and  through  Albania,  this  practical  Plato  with  a  purse  in 
his  hand,  carried  on  his  mad  chase  after  the  Good  and  the 
Beautiful,  and  yet  returned  in  safety  to  his  home. 

A.  W.  Kinglake 
304 


Collectors 

Archdeacon  Meadow  <:n^        ^^^       o        ";:>        ^;> 

YOU  see  him  now  —  tall,  straight,  and  meagre,  but 
with  a  grim  dignity  in  his  air  which  warms  into 
benignity  as  he  inspects  a  pretty  little  clean  Elzevir,  or 
a  tall  portly  Stephens,  concluding  his  inward  estimate  of 
the  prize  with  a  peculiar  grunting  chuckle,  known  by 
the  initiated  to  be  an  important  announcement.  This  is 
no  doubt  one  of  the  milder  and  more  inoffensive  types, 
but  still  a  thoroughly  confirmed  and  obstinate  case.  Its 
parallel  to  the  classes  who  are  to  be  taken  charge  of  by 
their  wiser  neighbours  is  only  too  close  and  awful;  for 
have  not  sometimes  the  female  members  of  his  household 
been  known  on  occasion  of  some  domestic  emergency  — 
or,  it  may  be,  for  mere  sake  of  keeping  the  lost  man  out  of 
mischief  —  to  have  been  searching  for  him  on  from  book- 
stall unto  bookstall,  just  as  the  mothers,  wives,  and 
daughters  of  other  lost  men  hunt  them  through  their 
favourite  taverns  or  gambling-houses?  Then,  again,  can 
one  forget  that  occasion  of  his  going  to  London  to  be 
examined  by  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
when  he  suddenly  disappeared  with  all  his  money  in  his 
pocket,  and  returned  penniless,  followed  by  a  waggon 
containing  372  copies  of  rare  editions  of  the  Bible?  All 
were  fish  that  came  to  his  net.  At  one  time  you  might  find 
him  securing  a  minnow  for  sixpence  at  a  stall  —  and 
presently  afterwards  he  outbids  some  princely  collector, 
and  secures  with  frantic  impetuosity,  "at  any  price,"  a 
great  fish  he  has  been  patiently  watching  year  after  year. 
Ilis  hunting-grounds  were  wide  and  distant,  and  there 
were  mysterious  rumours  about  the  numljers  of  copies, 
all  identically  the  same  in  edition  and  minor  individualities, 
which  he  possessed  of  certain  books.  I  have  known  him, 
X  305 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

indeed,  when  beaten  at  an  auction,  turn  round  resignedly  and 
say:  "Well,  so  be  it  —  but  I  daresay  I  have  ten  or  twelve 
copies  at  home,  if  I  could  lay  hands  on  them." 

It  is  a  matter  of  extreme  anxiety  to  his  friends,  and, 
if  he  have  a  well-constituted  mind,  of  sad  misgiving  to 
himself,  when  the  collector  buys  his  first  duplicate.  It  is 
like  the  first  secret  dram  swallowed  in  the  forenoon  —  the 
first  pawning  of  the  silver  spoons  —  or  any  other  terrible 
first  step  downwards  you  may  please  to  liken  it  to.  There 
is  no  hope  for  the  patient  after  this.  It  rends  at  once  the 
veil  of  decorum  spun  out  of  the  flimsy  sophisms  by  which 
he  has  been  deceiving  his  friends,  and  partially  deceiving 
himself,  into  the  belief  that  his  previous  purchases  were 
necessary,  or,  at  all  events,  serviceable  for  professional 
and  literary  purposes.  He  now  becomes  shameless  and 
hardened;  and  it  is  observable  in  the  career  of  this  class 
of  unfortunates,  that  the  first  act  of  duplicity  is  immedi- 
ately followed  by  an  access  of  the  disorder,  and  a  reckless 
abandonment  to  its  propensities.  The  Archdeacon  had 
long  passed  this  stage  ere  he  crossed  my  path,  and  had 
become  thoroughly  hardened.  He  was  not  remarkable  for 
local  attachment;  and  in  moving  from  place  to  place,  his 
spoil,  packed  in  innumerable  great  boxes,  sometimes  fol- 
lowed him,  to  remain  unreleased  during  the  whole  period  of 
his  tarrying  in  his  new  abode,  so  that  they  were  removed 
to  the  next  stage  of  his  journey  through  life  with  modified 
inconvenience. 

Cruel  as  it  may  seem,  I  must  yet  notice  another  and  a 
peculiar  vagary  of  his  malady.  He  had  resolved,  at  least 
once  in  his  life,  to  part  with  a  considerable  proportion 
of  his  collection  —  better  to  suffer  the  anguish  of  such  an 
act  than  endure  the  fretting  of  continued  restraint.  There 
was  a  wondrous  sale  by  auction  accordingly;  it  was  some- 
306 


Collectors 

thing  like  what  may  have  occurred  on  the  dissolution  of 
the  monasteries  at  the  Reformation,  or  when  the  contents 
of  some  time-honoured  public  library  were  realised  at  the 
period  of  the  French  Revolution.  Before  the  affair  was 
over,  the  Archdeacon  himself  made  his  appearance  in  the 
midst  of  the  miscellaneous  self-invited  guests  who  were 
making  free  with  his  treasures  —  he  pretended,  honest  man, 
to  be  a  mere  casual  spectator,  who,  having  seen,  in  passing, 
the  announcement  of  a  sale  by  auction,  stepped  in  like  the 
rest  of  the  public.  By  degrees  he  got  excited,  gasped  once 
or  twice  as  if  mastering  some  desperate  impulse,  and  at 
length  fairly  bade.  He  could  not  brazen  out  the  effect  of 
this  escapade,  however,  and  disappeared  from  the  scene. 
It  was  remarked  by  the  observant,  that  an  unusual  number 
of  lots  were  afterwards  knocked  down  to  a  military  gentle- 
man, who  seemed  to  have  left  portentously  large  orders 
with  the  auctioneer.  Some  curious  suspicions  began  to 
arise,  which  were  settled  by  that  presiding  genius  bending 
over  his  rostrum,  and  explaining  in  a  confidential  whisper 
that  the  military  hero  was  in  reality  a  pillar  of  the  Church 
so  disguised. 

The  Archdeacon  lay  under  what,  among  a  portion  of  the 
victims  of  his  malady,  was  deemed  a  heavy  scandal.  He 
was  suspected  of  reading  his  own  books  —  that  is  to  say, 
when  he  could  get  at  them ;  for  there  are  those  who  may 
still  remember  his  rather  shamefaced  apparition  of  an 
evening,  petitioning,  somewhat  in  the  tone  with  which  an 
old  school -fellow  down  in  the  world  requests  your  assist- 
ance to  help  him  to  go  to  York  to  get  an  appointment  — 
jK'titioning  for  the  loan  of  a  volume  of  which  he  could  not 
deny  that  he  posses.sed  numberless  copies  lurking  in  divers 
parts  of  his  vast  collection.  This  reputation  of  reading  the 
books  in  his  collection,  which  should  be  sacred  to  external 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

inspection  solely,  is,  with  a  certain  school  of  book-collectors, 
a  scandal,  such  as  it  would  be  among  a  hunting  set  to  hint 
that  a  man  had  killed  a  fox.  In  the  dialogues,  not  always 
the  most  entertaining,  of  Dibdin's  Bibliomania,  there  is  this 
short  passage :  " '  I  will  frankly  confess,'  rejoined  Lysander, 
'that  I  am  an  arrant  bibliomaniac  —  that  I   love  books 

dearly  —  that  the  very  sight,  touch,  and  mere  perusal ' 

'Hold,  my  friend,'  again  exclaimed  Philemon;  '  you  have 
renounced  your  profession  —  you  talk  of  reading  books  — 
do  bibliomaniacs  ever  read  books?'" 

Yes,  the  Archdeacon  read  books  —  he  devoured  them ; 
and  he  did  so  to  full  prolific  purpose.  His  was  a  mind 
enriched  with  varied  learning,  which  he  gave  forth  with 
full,  strong,  easy  flow,  like  an  inexhaustible  perennial 
spring  coming  from  inner  reservoirs,  never  dry,  yet  too 
capacious  to  exhibit  the  brawling,  bubbling  symptoms  of 
repletion.  It  was  from  a  majestic  heedlessness  of  the 
busy  world  and  its  fame  that  he  got  the  character  of  indo- 
lence, and  was  set  down  as  one  who  would  leave  no  lasting 
memorial  of  his  great  learning.  But  when  he  died,  it  was 
not  altogether  without  leaving  a  sign ;  for  from  the  casual 
droppings  of  his  pen  has  been  preserved  enough  to  signify 
to  many  generations  of  students  in  the  walk  he  chiefly 
affected  how  richly  his  mind  was  stored,  and  how  much  fresh 
matter  there  is  in  those  fields  of  inquiry  where  compilers 
have  left  their  dreary  tracks,  for  ardent  students  to  culti- 
vate into  a  rich  harvest.  In  him  truly  the  bibliomania 
may  be  counted  among  the  many  illustrations  of  the  truth 
so  often  moralised  on,  that  the  highest  natures  are  not 
exempt  from  human  fraility  in  some  shape  or  other. 

/.  H.  Burton 


308 


Collectors 

M.  Villenave  'O        ^^o        ^Qy        ^o        ^o       ^;i> 

MVILLENAVE  very  rarely  appeared  in  the  salon, 
•  except  on  the  Athence  nights.  He  spent  the  rest  of 
his  time  on  the  second  floor,  only  appearing  among  his 
family  for  dinner;  then,  after  a  few  minutes'  chat,  after 
lecturing  his  son  and  scolding  his  wife,  he  would  stretch 
himself  out  in  an  arm-chair,  have  his  curls  attended  to 
by  his  daughter  and  return  to  his  own  apartments.  The 
quarter  of  an  hour  during  which  the  teeth  of  the  comb 
gently  scratched  his  head  was  the  happiest  time  of  the 
day  to  M.  Villenave,  the  only  rest  he  allowed  himself 
from  his  unending  absorption  in  scribbling. 

"But  why  did  he  curl  his  hair?"  some  one  asks. 

That  was  the  question  I  myself  put. 

Madame  Waldor  declared  that  it  was  purely  an  excuse 
for  having  his  head  scratched.  M.  Villenave  must  have 
been  a  parrot  in  one  of  the  metamorphoses  that  preceded 
his  life  as  a  human  being.  Madame  Villenave,  who  had 
known  her  husband  longer  than  her  daughter  had,  and 
who  therefore  could  claim  to  know  him  better,  averred 
that  it  was  from  vanity.  And,  indeed,  M.  Villenave,  who 
was  a  good-looking  old  man,  must  have  been  splendidly 
handsome  as  a  young  man.  His  strongly  marked  features 
were  wonderfully  set  oflF  in  their  frame  of  flowing  white 
hair,  which  showed  up  the  fiery  light  of  his  fine  black 
eyes.  In  fact,  although  M.  Villenave  was  a  learned  man, 
he  was  also  vain  —  a  combination  of  virtue  and  fault  rarely 
found  together  —  but  he  was  only  vain  about  his  head. 
As  for  the  rest  of  his  appearance,  with  the  exception  of  his 
cravat,  which  was  invariably  white,  he  left  it  to  his  tailor 
and  his  bootmaker,  or  rather,  to  his  (laughter's  care, 
who  looked  after  these  matters  for  her  father.     Whether 

309 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

his  coat  were  blue  or  black,  his  trousers  wide  or  narrow, 
the  toes  of  his  boots  round  or  square,  so  long  as  M.  Ville- 
nave's  hair  was  well  dressed,  it  was  all  he  cared  about.  We 
have  mentioned  that  when  his  daughter  had  combed  and 
curled  his  locks,  M.  Villenave  went  upstairs  to  his  own 
rooms  —  or  home,  as  the  English  say.  Good  gracious ! 
what  a  curious  place  it  was,  too ! 

Follow  me,  reader,  if  these  minute  details  after  the 
fashion  of  Balzac  amuse  you,  and  if  you  believe  nature 
takes  as  much  pains  over  the  making  of  a  hyssop  as  over 
the  making  of  a  cedar  tree. 

Besides,  we  may  perhaps  be  able  to  unearth  some 
curious  anecdote  from  out  the  medley,  concerning  a  charm- 
ing pastel  by  Latour.  But  we  have  not  got  there  yet; 
we  shall  come  to  it  in  the  end,  just  as  at  last  we  have  come 
to  M.  Villenave's  sanctum. 

We  have  divided  up  the  ground  floor  into  dining-room, 
kitchen,  pantry;  and  on  the  first  floor  into  the  small  and 
large  salons  and  the  bedrooms;  there  was  nothing  like 
that  on  the  second  floor.  The  second  floor  had  five 
rooms,  five  rooms  full  of  nothing  else  but  books  and  boxes. 
These  five  rooms  must  have  contained  forty  thousand 
volumes  and  four  thousand  boxes,  piled  up  on  the  floor  and 
on  tables.  The  ante -room  alone  was  a  vast  library.  It 
had  two  entrances:  that  on  the  right  led  to  M.  Villenave's 
bedroom  —  a  chamber  to  which  we  shall  return. 

That  on  the  left  opened  into  a  large  room,  which,  in 
its  turn,  led  into  a  much  smaller  one.  These  two  rooms, 
be  it  understood,  were  nothing  but  two  libraries.  The 
four  walls  of  them  were  tapestried  with  books  upheld  on 
a  substratum  of  boxes.  This  was  odd  enough  in  itself,  as 
will  readily  be  imagined,  but  it  was  not  the  most  original 
thing  that  caught  one's  notice.  The  most  ingenious  ar- 
310 


Collectors 

rangement  was  a  square  construction  which  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  like  an  enormous  block  and  formed 
a  second  librar)'  within  the  first,  leaving  only  space  for  a 
pathway  round  the  room,  bordered  with  books  on  left  and 
right,  just  wide  enough  to  allow  a  single  person  to  move 
freely;  a  second  person  would  have  blocked  the  traffic. 
Moreover,  only  M.  Villenave's  most  intimate  friends  ever 
presumed  to  be  allowed  the  privilege  of  admission  to  this 
sanctum  sanctorum.  The  substratum  of  boxes  contained 
autographs.  The  age  of  Louis  XIV.  alone  needed  five 
hundred  boxes!  Herein  were  contained  the  result  of  fifty 
years  of  daily  labour,  concentrated  on  this  one  object ;  hour 
after  hour  taken  up  by  this  one  passion.  It  was,  in  a  word, 
the  gentle  and  ardent  passion  of  a  born  collector,  into  which 
he  put  his  mind  and  happiness  and  joy  and  life  ! 

There  were  to  be  found  a  portion  of  the  papers  of  Louis 
XVI.,  discovered  in  the  iron  chest;  there  was  the  corre- 
spondence of  Malesherbes,  two  hundred  autographs  of 
Rousseau,  and  four  hundred  of  Voltaire;  together  with 
autographs  of  all  the  kings  of  France  from  Charlemagne 
down  to  our  own  time ;  there  were  drawings  by  Raphael  and 
Jules  Romain,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
Lebrun,  Lesueur,  Greuze,  Vanloo,  Watteau,  Boucher,  Vien, 
David,  Girodct,  etc. 

M.  Villenave  would  not  have  parted  with  the  contents 
of  those  two  rooms  for  a  hundred  thousand  crowns. 

There  now  only  remain  the  bedroom  and  the  black 
cabinet  behind  M.  Villenave's  alcove,  which  was  reached 
by  a  corridor,  about  which  we  shall  have  occasion  to  say 
a  few  words.  Only  tho.se  who  saw  that  bedroom,  wherein 
the  bed  was  the  least  conspicuous  piece  of  furniture, 
cm  conceive  any  idea  of  what  the  bedroom  of  a  bii)lio- 
maniac  is  like.     It  was  in   this  room  that  M.  Villenave 

3" 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

received  his  friends.  After  four  or  five  months'  intimacy 
in  the  household,  I  had  the  honour  of  being  received  in 
it.  An  old  servant,  called,  I  believe,  Franjoise,  con- 
ducted me  to  it.  I  had  promised  M.  Villenave  an  auto- 
graph —  not  that  of  Napoleon,  of  which  he  possessed  five 
or  six,  or  that  of  Bonaparte,  of  which  he  had  three  or  four  — 
but  one  of  Buonaparte. 

He  had  given  orders  that  I  was  to  be  shown  upstairs 
as  soon  as  I  arrived. 

Fran^oise  half  opened  the  door. 

"M.  Dumas  is  here,"  she  said. 

Generally,  when  anyone  was  announced,  even  were  he 
an  intimate  friend  who  had  come  unexpectedly,  M. 
Villenave  would  utter  a  loud  cry,  scold  Frangoise  and 
fling  up  his  arms  in  despair;  then,  finally,  when  he  had 
indulged  his  fit  of  despair,  and  moaned  and  sighed  his 
fill,  he  would  say  —  "Very  well,  Franjoise,  as  he  is  there, 
show  him  in."     Then  the  intruder  would  be  let  in. 

My  reception  was  quite  otherwise.  M.  Villenave  had 
hardly  caught  my  name  before  he  exclaimed  — 

"Show  him  in  !  show  him  in  !" 

In  I  went. 

"Ah!  here  you  are,"  he  said.  "Well,  I  wager  you 
have  not  been  able  to  find  it !" 

"What?" 

"That  famous  autograph  you  promised  me  yester- 
day." 

"Yes,  indeed.     I  have  found  it." 

"And  have  you  brought  it?" 

"To  be  sure  I  have!  .  .  ," 

"Really?" 

"Here  it  is!" 

"  Quick,  let  me  see  it ! " 

312 


Collectors 

I  handed  it  to  him.  M.  Villenave  rushed  up  to  the 
window. 

"Yes,  it  is  genuine,"  he  said;  "there  is  the  «/  Oh! 
there  is  his  ven,'  own  u,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Let  us 
see:  '29  vendemiaire,  year  IV.,'  that  is  it!  .  .  .  Stop, 
stop!"  He  went  to  a  bo.x.  "See,  here  is  one  of  Jrimaire 
in  the  same  year,  signed  'Bonaparte,  12  frimaire';  so  it 
must  have  been  between  29  vendemiaire  and  12  frimaire 
that  he  dropped  his  u\  this  determines  a  great  historic 
question !" 

While  this  monologue  was  being  carried  on,  I  had  been 
glancing  round  the  bedchamber  thoroughly,  and  I  had 
noticed  that  the  only  piece  of  furniture  that  was  not  en- 
cumbered with  books  was  the  arm-chair  from  which  he 
had  just  risen.  After  M.  Villenave  had  carefully  examined 
the  autograph,  he  put  it  into  a  white  wrapper,  wrote  on  the 
wrapper,  placed  it  in  a  box,  put  the  box  in  its  place  and 
flung  himself  back  into  his  arm-chair,  with  a  sigh  of  joy. 
"Ah!  now,  sit  down,"  he  said.  "I  should  like  nothing 
better,"  I  replied;  "but  what  do  you  mean  me  to  sit  on  ?  " 
"Why,  on  the  couch."  " Oh,  yes,  on  the  couch."  "What 
about  it?"  "Well,  just  look  at  the  couch  for  yourself." 
"Upon  my  word,  you  are  right;  it  is  full  of  books.  Never 
mind,  pull  up  an  arm-chair."  "With  great  pleasure. 
But  the  arm-chairs  ..  .?"  "The  arm-chairs?"  "Are  lit- 
tered just  like  the  couch."    "  Ah  !  I  have  so  many  books 

Have  you  noticed  the  great  cracks  in  the  walls  of  the 
house?"  "No."  "It  is  visible  enough  nevertheless.  .  .  . 
Well,  my  dear  monsieur,  it  is  the  books!  The  books  are 
l.ulling  down  the  hou.se."  "The  books?  How?"  "Yes, 
twelve  hundred  folios,  monsieur,  twelve  hundred  .splendid 
and  rare  folios;  I  even  believe  there  are  quite  unknown  ones 
among  them,  so  rare  arc  they !     I  i)Ul  all  tlio.sc  in  the  garret 

3^3 


Some   Friends  of  Mine 

and  I  was  intending  to  put  more  there,  for  there  was  room 
for  another  twelve  hundred;  when,  suddenly,  the  house 
trembled,  uttered  a  groan  and  cracked." 

"Why  you  must  have  thought  it  was  an  earthquake?" 
"Exactly!  .  .  .  but  when  we  found  the  damage  was 
limited  we  sent  for  an  architect.  The  architect  examined 
the  house  from  the  cellar  to  the  second  floor  and  declared 
that  the  accident  could  only  have  been  caused  by  too 
heavy  a  weight.  And,  consequently,  he  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  look  at  the  attics.  Alas!  this  was  what  I 
dreaded.  Oh!  if  it  had  only  been  a  question  of  myself, 
I  would  never  have  given  him  the  key;  but  one  has  to 
sacrifice  oneself  for  the  general  good.  ...  He  visited  the 
attics,  discovered  the  folios,  reckoned  that  the  weight 
must  come  to  eight  thousand  pounds  and  declared  that 
they  must  be  sold  or  he  would  not  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences. .  .  .     And  they  were  sold,  monsieur ! " 

"At  a  loss?" 

"No  .  .  .  Alas!  I  made  a  profit  of  five  or  six  thousand 
francs  on  them,  because,  you  know,  books  increase  in 
value  from  having  been  in  the  possession  of  a  bibliophile ; 
but  the  poor  folios  were  lost  to  me  —  hounded  from 
beneath  the  roof  that  had  sheltered  them.  ...  I  shall 
never  come  across  such  a  collection  again.  But  pray 
take  a  chair." 

The  chairs  were  in  a  similar  condition  to  the  easy- 
chairs  and  couches  —  not  one  was  unoccupied. 

I  decided  to  change  the  conversation. 

Alexandre  Dumas  (translated  by  E.  M.  Waller) 


3H 


XXII 
THE    PATRIOTS 

The  Peasant  of  Brule  ^^        <:>        o         '^ 

WHEN  we  had  gone  some  way,  clattering  through 
the  dust,  and  were  well  on  the  Commercy  road, 
there  was  a  short  halt  and  during  this  halt  there  passed 
us  the  largest  tun  or  barrel  that  ever  went  on  wheels. 
You  talk  of  the  Great  Tun  of  Heidelberg,  or  of  those 
monstrous  Vats  that  stand  in  cool  sheds  in  the  Napa 
Valley,  or  of  the  vast  barrels  in  the  Catacombs  of  Rheims; 
but  all  these  are  built  in  situ  and  meant  to  remain  steady, 
and  there  is  no  limit  to  the  size  of  a  Barrel  that  has  not 
to  travel.  The  point  about  this  enormous  Receptacle  of 
Bacchus  and  cavernous  huge  Prison  of  Laughter,  was 
that  it  could  move,  though  cumbrously,  and  it  was  drawn 
very  slowly  by  stupid,  patient  oven,  who  would  not  be 
hurried.  On  the  top  of  it  sat  a  strong  peasant,  with  a  face 
of  determination,  as  though  he  were  at  war  with  his 
kind,  and  he  kept  on  calling  to  his  Oxen,  "Hau,"  and 
"  Hu,"  in  the  tones  of  a  sullen  challenge,  as  he  went  creak- 
ing past.  Then  the  soldiers  began  calling  out  to  him 
singly,  "Where  are  you  off  to,  Father,  with  all  that  battery?" 
and  "Why  carry  cold  water  to  Commercy?     They  have 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

only  too  much  as  it  is ; "  and  "What  have  you  got  in  the  little 
barrelkin,  the  barrellet,  the  Cantiniere's  brandy  flask,  the 
Gourd,  the  Firkin?" 

He  stopped  his  Oxen  fiercely  and  turned  round  to  us  and 
said:  — 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  here.  I  have  so  many 
hectolitres  of  Brule  Wine  which  I  made  myself  and  which 
I  know  to  be  the  best  wine  there  is,  and  I  am  taking  it 
about  to  see  if  I  cannot  tame  and  break  these  proud 
fellows  who  are  for  ever  beating  down  prices  and  mock- 
ing me.  It  is  worth  eight  'scutcheons  the  hectolitre,  that 
is  eight  sols  the  litre;  what  do  I  say?  it  is  worth  a  Louis 
a  cup:  but  I  will  sell  it  at  the  price  I  name,  and  not  a 
penny  less.  But  whenever  I  come  to  a  village  the  inn- 
keeper begins  bargaining  and  chaffering  and  offering  six 
sols  and  seven  sols,  and  I  answer,  'Eight  sols,  take  it  or 
leave  it,'  and  when  he  seems  for  haggling  again  I  get  up 
and  drive  away.  I  know  the  worth  of  my  Wine,  and  I  will 
not  be  beaten  down  though  I  have  to  go  out  of  Lorraine 
into  the  Barrois  to  sell  it." 

So  when  we  caught  him  up  again,  as  we  did  shortly 
after  on  the  road,  a  sergeant  cried  as  we  passed,  "I  will 
give  you  seven,  seven  and  a  quarter,  seven  and  a  half," 
and  we  went  on  laughing  and  forgot  all  about  him. 

For  many  days  we  marched  from  this  place  to  that 
place,  and  fired  and  played  a  confused  game  in  the  hot 
sun  till  the  train  of  sick  horses  was  a  mile  long,  and  till 
the  recruits  were  all  as  deaf  as  so  many  posts;  and  at 
last,  one  evening  we  came  to  a  place  called  Heiltz  le  Mau- 
rupt,  which  was  like  heaven  after  the  hot  plain  and  the 
dust,  and  whose  inhabitants  are  as  good  and  hospitable 
as  Angels;  it  is  just  where  the  Champagne  begins.  When 
we  had  groomed  and  watered  our  horses  and  the  stable 
316 


The   Patriots 

guard  had  been  set,  and  we  had  all  an  hour  or  so's  leisure 
to  stroll  about  in  the  cool  darkness  before  sleeping  in  the 
barns,  we  had  a  sudden  lesson  in  the  smallness  of  the  world, 
for  what  should  come  up  the  village  street  but  that  mon- 
strous barrel,  and  we  could  see  by  its  movement  that  it 
was  still  quite  full. 

We  gathered  round  the  peasant,  and  told  him  how 
grieved  we  were  at  his  ill  fortune,  and  agreed  with  him 
that  all  the  people  of  the  Barrois  were  thieves  or  madmen 
not  to  buy  such  wine  for  such  a  song.  He  took  his  Oxen 
and  his  barrel  to  a  very  high  shed  that  stood  by,  and  there 
he  told  us  all  his  pilgrimage  and  the  many  assaults  his 
firmness  suffered,  and  how  he  had  resisted  them  all. 
There  was  much  more  anger  than  sorrow  in  his  accent,  and 
I  could  see  that  he  was  of  the  wood  from  which  tyrants 
and  martyrs  are  carved.  Then  suddenly  he  changed  and 
became  eloquent :  — 

"Oh  the  good  Wine!  if  it  were  known  and  tasted!  .  .  . 
Here,  give  me  a  cup,  and  I  will  ask  some  of  you  to  taste 
it,  then  at  least  I  shall  have  it  praised  as  it  deserves.  And 
this  is  the  Wine  I  have  carried  more  than  a  hundred  miles, 
and  ever)'\vhere  it  has  been  refused!" 

There  was  one  guttering  candle  on  a  little  stool.  The 
roof  of  the  shed  was  lost  up  in  the  great  height  of  dark- 
ness; behind,  in  the  darkness,  the  Oxen  champed  away 
steadily  in  the  manger.  The  light  from  the  candle-flame 
lit  his  face  strongly  from  beneath  and  marked  it  with  dark 
shadows.  It  flickered  on  the  circle  of  our  faces  as  we 
pressed  round,  and  it  came  slantwise  and  waned  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  immense  length  of  the  barrel.  lie  stood 
near  the  tap  with  his  brows  knit  as  upon  some  very  im- 
portant task,  and  all  we,  gunners  and  drivers  of  the  battery, 
began   unhooking  our  mugs  and   passing  them   to  him. 

V7 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

There  were  nearly  a  hundred,  and  he  filled  them  all; 
not  in  jollity,  but  like  a  man  offering  up  a  solemn  sacrifice. 
We  also,  entering  into  his  mood,  passed  our  mugs  con- 
tinually, thanking  him  in  a  low  tone  and  keeping  in  the 
main  silent.  A  few  linesmen  lounged  at  the  door;  he 
asked  for  their  cups  and  filled  them.  He  bade  them  fetch 
as  many  of  their  comrades  as  cared  to  come;  and  very 
soon  there  was  a  circulating  crowd  of  men  all  getting  Wine 
of  Brule  and  murmuring  their  congratulations,  and  he 
was  willing  enough  to  go  on  giving,  but  we  stopped  when 
we  saw  fit  and  the  scene  ended. 

I  cannot  tell  what  prodigious  measure  of  wine  he  gave 
away  to  us  all  that  night,  but  when  he  struck  the  roof  of  the 
cask  it  already  sounded  hollow.  And  when  we  had  made 
a  collection  which  he  had  refused,  he  went  to  sleep  by  his 
Oxen,  and  we  to  our  straw  in  other  Bams. 

Next  day  we  started  before  dawn  and  I  never  saw  him 
again. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  Wine  of  Brule,  and  it  shows  that 
what  men  love  is  never  money  itself  but  their  own  way, 
and  that  human  beings  love  sympathy  and  pageant  above 
all  things.     It  also  teaches  us  not  to  be  hard  on  the  rich. 

H.  Belloc 

Chodruc-Duclos       <^         •'Qy        -cy        -v>        ^;2y 

CHODRUC-DUCLOS  was  bom  at  Sainte-Foy,  near 
Bordeaux.  He  would  be  about  forty-eight  when 
the  Revolution  of  July  took  place;  he  was  tall  and  strong 
and  splendidly  built;  his  beard  hid  features  that  must  have 
been  of  singular  beauty;  but  he  used  ostentatiously  to 
display  his  hands,  which  were  always  very  clean.  By 
right  of  courage,  if  not  of  skill,  he  was  looked  upon  as 


The  Patriots 

the  principal  star  of  that  Pleiades  of  duellists  which 
flourished  at  Bordeaux,  during  the  Empire,  under  the 
title  of  les  Crdnes  (Skulls).  They  were  all  Royalists. 
MM.  Lercaro,  Latapie  and  de  Peyronnet  were  said  to 
be  Duclos'  most  intimate  friends.  These  men  were  also 
possessed  of  another  notable  characteristic:  they  never 
fought  amongst  themselves. 

Duclos  was  suspected  of  carrying  on  relations  with  Louis 
XVIII.  in  the  verj'  zenith  of  the  Empire,  and  was  arrested 
one  morning  in  his  bed  by  the  Chief  of  the  Police,  Pierre- 
Pierre.  He  was  taken  to  Vincennes,  where  he  was  kept 
a  prisoner  until  1814.  Set  free  by  the  Restoration,  he 
entered  Bordeaux  in  triumph,  and  as,  during  his  captivity, 
he  had  come  into  a  small  fortune,  he  resumed  his  old  habits 
and  interlarded  them  with  fresh  diversions.  The  Royalist 
government,  which  recompensed  all  its  devoted  adherents 
(a  virtue  that  was  attributed  to  it  as  a  crime),  would,  no 
doubt,  have  been  pleased  to  reward  Duclos  for  his  loyalty, 
but  it  was  very  difficult  to  find  a  suitable  way  of  doing  so> 
for  he  had  the  incurable  habits  of  a  peripatetic :  he  was  only 
accustomed  to  a  nomadic  life  of  fencing,  political  intrigue, 
theatre-going,  women  and  literature.  King  Louis  XVIII., 
therefore,  could  not  entrust  him  with  any  other  public 
function  than  that  of  an  everlasting  walker,  or,  as  Bar- 
thdlemy  dubbed  it,  "Chrc^tien  errant." 

Unfortunately,  money,  however  considerable  its  quantity, 
comes  to  an  end  some  time.  When  Duclos  had  exhausted 
his  patrimony,  he  recollected  his  past  services  for  the 
Bourbon  cause  and  came  to  Paris  to  remind  them.  But 
he  had  remembered  too  late  and  had  given  the  Bourbons 
time  to  forget.  The  business  of  soliciting  for  favours, 
at  all  events,  exercised  his  locomotive  faculties  to  the  best 
possible  advantage.     So,  every  morning,  two  melancholy 

3«9 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

looking  pleaders  could  be  seen  to  cross  the  Pont  Royal, 
like  two  shades  crossing  the  river  Styx,  on  their  way  to  beg 
a  good  place  in  the  Elysian  fields  from  the  minister  of  Pluto. 
One  was  Duclos,  the  other  the  Mayor  of  Orgon.  What  had 
the  latter  done?  He  had  thrown  the  first  stone  into  the 
Emperor's  carriage  in  1814,  and  had  come  to  Paris,  stone 
in  hand,  to  demand  his  reward.  After  years  of  soliciting, 
these  two  faithful  applicants,  seeing  that  nothing  was  to 
be  obtained,  each  arrived  at  a  different  conclusion.  The 
Mayor  of  Orgon,  completely  ruined,  tied  his  stone  round 
his  own  neck  and  threw  himself  into  the  Seine.  Duclos, 
much  more  philosophically  inclined,  decided  upon  living, 
and,  in  order  to  humiliate  the  Government  to  which  he 
had  sacrificed  three  years  of  his  liberty,  and  M.  de  Pey- 
ronnet,  with  whom  he  had  had  many  bouts  by  the  banks 
of  the  Garonne,  bought  old  clothes,  as  he  had  not  the 
patience  to  wait  till  his  new  ones  grew  old,  bashed  in  the 
top  of  his  hat,  gave  up  shaving  himself,  tied  sandals  over 
his  old  shoes,  and  began  that  everlasting  promenade  up 
and  down  the  arcades  of  the  Palais-Royal  which  exercised 
the  wisdom  of  all  the  (Edipuses  of  his  time.  Duclos  never 
left  the  Palais-Royal  until  one  in  the  morning,  when  he 
went  to  the  rue  du  Pelican,  where  he  lodged,  to  sleep,  not 
exactly  in  furnished  apartments,  but,  more  correctly 
speaking,  in  unfurnished  ones. 

In  the  course  of  his  promenading,  which  lasted  probably 
a  dozen  years,  Duclos  (with  only  three  exceptions,  which 
we  are  about  to  quote,  one  of  them  being  made  in  our  own 
favour)  never  went  up  to  any  one  to  speak  to  him,  no  matter 
who  he  was.  Like  Socrates,  he  communed  alone  with 
his  own  familiar  spirit ;  no  tragic  hero  ever  attempted  such 
a  complete  monologue !  —  One  day,  however,  he  departed 
from  his  habits,  and  walked  straight  towards  one  of  his  old 
320 


The  Patriots 

friends,  M.  Giraud-Savine,  a  witty  and  learned  man,  as 
we  shall  find  out  later,  who  afterwards  became  deputy 
to  the  Mayor  of  Batignolles.  M.  Giraud's  heart  stood 
still  with  fright  for  an  instant,  for  he  thought  he  was  going 
to  be  robbed  of  his  purse;  but  he  was  wrong:  for  Duclos 
never  borrowed  anything. 

"Giraud,"  he  asked  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  "which  is 
the  best  translation  of  Tacitus?"  "There  isn't  one!" 
replied  M.  Giraud.  Duclos  shook  his  treasured  rags  in 
sad  dejection,  then  returned,  like  Diogenes,  to  his  tub. 
Only,  his  tub  happened  to  be  the  Palais-Royal. 

On  another  occasion,  whilst  I  was  chatting  with  Nodicr, 
opposite  the  door  of  the  cafe  de  Foy,  Duclos  passed  and 
stared  attentively  at  Nodier.  Nodier,  who  knew  him, 
thought  he  must  want  to  speak  to  him,  and  took  a  step 
towards  him.  But  Duclos  shook  his  head  and  went  on 
his  way  without  saying  anything.  Nodier  then  gave  me 
various  details  of  the  life  of  this  odd  being;  after  which  we 
separated.  During  our  talk,  Duclos  had  had  time  to  make 
the  round  of  the  Palais-Royal;  so,  going  back  by  the 
Th^itre-Frangais,  I  met  him  very  nearly  opposite  the  cafd 
Corazza.     He  stopped  right  in  front  of  me. 

"Monsieur  Dumas,"  he  said  to  me,  "do  you  know 
Nodier?"  "Very  well."  "Do  you  like  him?"  "With 
all  my  heart  I  do."  "Do  you  not  think  he  grows  old 
very  fast?"  "I  must  confess  I  agree  with  you  that  he 
does."  "Do  you  know  why?"  "No."  "Well,  I  will 
tell  you  :  Because  he  does  not  lake  care  of  himself .'  Nothing 
ages  a  man  more  quickly  than  neglecting  his  health ! " 
He  continued  his  walk  and  left  me  quite  stunned;  not  by 
his  observation,  sagacious  as  it  was;  but  by  the  thought 
that  it  was  Choflruc-Duclos  who  had  made  it.  The 
Revolution  of  July  1830  had,  for  the  moment,  interrupted 
y  321 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

the  inveterate  habits  of  two  men  —  Stibert  and  Chodruc- 
Duclos. 

Stibert  was  as  confirmed  a  gambler  as  Duclos  was  an 
indefatigable  walker.  Frascati's,  where  Stibert  spent  his 
days  and  nights,  was  closed;  the  Ordinances  had  sus- 
pended the  game  of  trente-et-un,  until  the  monarchy  of 
July  should  suppress  it  altogether. 

Stibert  had  not  patience  to  wait  till  the  Tuileries  was 
taken:  on  28  July,  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  he  com- 
pelled the  concierge  at  Frascati's  to  open  its  doors  to  him 
and  to  play  picquet  with  him.  Duclos,  for  his  part, 
coming  from  his  rooms  to  go  to  his  beloved  Palais-Royal, 
found  the  Swiss  defending  the  approaches  to  it.  Some 
youths  had  begun  a  struggle  with  them,  and  one  of  them, 
armed  with  a  regulation  rifle,  was  firing  on  the  red-coats 
with  more  courage  than  skill.  Duclos  watched  him,  and 
then,  growing  impatient  that  any  one  should  risk  his  life 
thus  wantonly,  he  said  to  the  youth  —  "Hand  me  your 
rifle.     I  will  show  you  how  to  use  it." 

The  young  fellow  lent  it  him  and  Duclos  took  aim. 
"Look!"  he  said;   and  down  dropped  a  Swiss. 

Duclos  returned  the  youth  his  rifle. 

"Oh,"  said  the  latter,  "upon  my  word!  if  you  can  use 
it  to  such  good  purpose  as  that,  stick  to  it !" 

"Thanks!"  replied  Duclos,  "I  am  not  of  that  opinion," 
and,  putting  the  rifle  into  the  youth's  hands,  he  crossed 
right  through  the  very  centre  of  the  firing  and  re-entered 
the  Palais-Royal,  where  he  resumed  his  accustomed  walk 
past  the  bronze  Apollo  and  marble  Ulysses,  the  only  society 
he  had  the  chance  of  meeting  during  the  27,  28  and  29 
July.  This  was  the  third  and  last  time  upon  which  he 
opened  his  mouth.  Duclos,  engrossed  as  he  was  with 
his  everlasting  walk,  would,  doubtless,  never  have  found 
322 


The  Patriots 

a  moment  in  which  to  die ;  only  one  morning  he  forgot  to 
wake  up.  The  inhabitants  of  the  Palais-Royal,  astonished 
at  having  been  a  whole  day  without  meeting  the  man  with 
the  long  beard,  learnt,  on  the  following  day,  from  the 
Comuet  papers,  that  Chodruc-Duclos  had  fallen  into  the 
sleep  that  knows  no  waking,  upon  his  pallet  bed  in  the  rue 
du  Pelican. 
The  Palais-Royal  buried  him  by  public  subscription. 

Alexandre  Dumas  {translated  by  E.  M.  Waller) 


The  French  Drummer 


^^:>  '^iK  -Qy  ^;iK 


VXTE  must  know  the  spirit  of  a  language,  and  this  is 
*  *  best  learned  by  drumming.  Parbleu!  how  much 
do  I  not  owe  to  the  French  drummer  who  was  so  long 
quartered  in  our  house,  who  looked  like  the  devil,  and  yet 
had  the  good  heart  of  an  angel,  and  who  above  all  this 
drummed  so  divinely! 

He  was  a  little,  nervous  figure,  with  a  terrible  black 
moustache,  beneath  which  red  lips  came  bounding  sud- 
denly outwards,  while  his  wild  eyes  shot  fiery  glances  all 
around. 

I,  a  young  shaver,  stuck  to  him  like  a  burr,  and  helped 
him  to  clean  his  military  buttons  till  they  shone  like 
mirrors,  and  to  pijjc-clay  his  vest  —  for  Monsieur  Le 
Grand  liked  to  look  well  —  and  I  followed  him  to  the 
watch,  to  the  roll-call,  to  the  parade  —  in  those  times 
there  was  nothing  but  the  gleam  of  weapons  and  merri- 
ment —  les  jours  defile  sont  passies  I  Monsieur  Le  Grand 
knew  but  a  little  broken  German,  only  the  three  principal 
words  in  every  tongue  —  "Bread,"  "Kiss,"  "Honour"  — 
t)Ut  he  could  make  him.self  very  intelligible  with  his  drum. 
I'or  instance,  if  I  knew  not  what  the  word  libcrli  meant. 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

he  drummed  the  Marseillaise  —  and  I  understood  him. 
If  I  did  not  understand  the  word  egalite  he  drummed  the 

march  — 

^a  ira,  5a  ira,  5a  ira, 
Les  aristocrats  a  la  lanterne ! 

and  I  understood  him.  If  I  did  not  know  what  bUise 
meant,  he  drummed  the  Dessauer  March,  which  we 
Germans,  as  Goethe  also  declares,  have  drummed  in 
Champagne  —  and  I  understood  him.  He  once  wanted 
to  explain  to  me  the  word  VAllemagne  (or  Germany), 
and  he  drummed  the  all  too  simple  melody  which  on 
market-days  is  played  to  dancing-dogs  —  namely,  dmn  — 
dum  —  dum !  I  was  vexed,  but  I  understood  him  for  all 
that ! • 

In  like  manner  he  taught  me  modern  history.  I  did 
not  understand,  it  is  true,  the  words  which  he  spoke,  but 
as  he  constantly  drummed  while  speaking,  I  understood 
him.  This  is,  fundamentally,  the  best  method.  The 
history  of  the  storming  of  the  Bastile,  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  the  like,  cannot  be  correctly  understood  until  we 
know  how  the  drumming  was  done  on  such  occasions. 
In  our  school  compendiums  of  history  we  merely  read: 
"Their  excellencies  the  Baron  and  Count,  with  the  most 
noble  spouses  of  the  aforesaid,  were  beheaded."  "Their 
highnesses  the  Dukes  and  Princes,  with  the  most  noble 
spouses  of  the  aforesaid,  were  beheaded."  "His  Majesty 
the  King,  with  his  most  sublime  spouse,  the  Queen,  was 
beheaded."  But  when  you  hear  the  red  March  of  the 
Guillotine  drumTned,  you  understand  it  correctly  for  the 
first  time,  and  with  it  the  how  and  the  why. 

Heinrich  Heine  {translated  by  C.  G.  Leland) 

*  Dum,  i.e.  dumm,  dumb  or  stupid. — Tr. 


XXIII 

TEACHERS    OF   YOUTH 

John  Sowerby  ^^       ^^^       '^^        '^^^        '^^       ^^^ 

.  .  .  "  It  is  better  far 

To  rule  by  love  than  fear." 

OH,  grey  old  "Noggs,"  loved,  honoured  and  revered, 
My  mental  eye  perceives  thy  hoary  beard, 
Thy  ancient  nose,  thy  silver-sandy  hair, 
Thy  eyes  that  watch  me  with  paternal  care. 
Long  may'st  thou  grant  me  endless  "leaves  off  school," 
And  pardon  each  transgression  of  a  rule ! 
Long  may  I  hear  thee  in  thine  own  strange  way 
Remark  with  curious  fervour,  "Oh,  I  s-a-y." 

Once  on  a  time,  men  say,  in  days  of  yore 

A  "booby-trap"  was  set  above  the  door; 

It  was  not  meant  for  him  —  they  deemed  that  he 

Was  seated  at  his  solitary  tea. 

Some  chance  did  animate  his  restless  toe 

Too  early  round  the  dormit'ries  to  go; 

Scarce  had  he  crossed  the  threshold  —  on  his  crown 

A  mighty  dictionary  came  thundering  down, 

While  hero  anrl  there  the  frightened  culprits  ran 

Exclaiming  breathlessly,  "By  Jove,  the  Man!" 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

Did  he  rush  at  them  with  resistless  rnight, 
Or  give  them  several  hundred  lines  to  write? 
By  no  means.     Turning  round  as  one  amazed, 
Grimly  around  the  darkened  room  he  gazed, 
And  said,  while  picking  up  his  battered  cap, 
"You  people  can't  half  set  a  booby-trap." 

And  when  the  poor  delinquents  on  the  morrow 
Went  to  him  to  express  their  contrite  sorrow. 
He  sniffed  a  kindly  sniff,  and  scratched  his  head, 
And  then  with  mild  benignity  he  said, 
"I  might  have  had  concussion  of  the  brain, 
But,  well  —  I  hope  it  won't  occur  again  !" 

A.  C.  Hilton 

Professor  Campbell  Fraser     ^i^y        -^o        -<ci^       <:>■ 

"PHRASER  was  rather  a  hazardous  cure  for  weak  intellects. 
■*•  Young  men  whose  anchor  had  been  certainty  of  them- 
selves went  into  that  class  floating  buoyantly  on  the  sea 
of  facts,  and  came  out  all  adrift  — -  on  the  sea  of  theory 
—  in  an  open  boat  —  rudderless  —  one  oar  —  the  boat 
scuttled.  How  could  they  think  there  was  any  chance  for 
them,  when  the  Professor  was  not  even  sure  of  himself? 
I  see  him  rising  in  a  daze  from  his  chair  and  putting  his 
hands  through  his  hair.  "Do  I  exist,"  he  said,  thought- 
fully, "strictly  so-called?"  The  students  (if  it  was  the 
beginning  of  the  .session)  looked  a  little  startled.  This 
was  a  matter  that  had  not  previously  disturbed  them. 
Still,  if  the  Professor  was  in  doubt,  there  must  be  some- 
thing in  it.  He  began  to  argue  it  out,  and  an  uncom- 
fortable silence  held  the  room  in  awe.  If  he  did  not  exist, 
the  chances  were  that  they  did  not  exist  either.  It  was 
326 


Teachers  of  Youth 

thus  a  personal  question.  The  Professor  glanced  round 
slowly  for  an  illustration.  "Am  I  a  table?"  A  pained 
look  travelled  over  the  class.  Was  it  just  possible  that 
they  were  all  tables?  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  students 
who  do  not  go  to  the  bottom  during  their  first  month  of 
metaphysics  begin  to  give  themselves  airs  strictly  so-called. 
In  the  privacy  of  their  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  they 
pinch  themselves  to  see  if  they  are  still  there. 

He  would,  I  think,  be  a  sorry  creature  who  did  not 
find  something  to  admire  in  Campbell  Fraser.  Meta- 
physics may  not  trouble  you,  as  it  troubles  him,  but  you 
do  not  sit  under  the  man  without  seeing  his  transparent 
honesty  and  feeling  that  he  is  genuine.  In  appearance 
and  in  habit  of  thought  he  is  an  ideal  philosopher,  and 
his  communings  with  himself  have  lifted  him  to  a  level 
of  serenity  that  is  worth  struggling  for.  Of  all  the  arts 
professors  in  Edinburgh  he  is  probably  the  most  difficult 
to  understand,  and  students  in  a  hurry  have  called  his 
lectures  childish.  If  so,  it  may  be  all  the  better  for  them. 
For  the  first  half  of  the  hour,  they  say,  he  tells  you  what 
he  is  going  to  do,  and  for  the  second  half  he  revises. 
Certainly  he  is  vastly  explanatory,  but  then  he  is  not  so 
young  as  they  are,  and  so  he  has  his  doubts.  They  are 
so  cock-sure  that  they  wonder  to  see  him  hesitate.  Often 
there  is  a  mist  on  the  mountain  when  it  is  all  clear  in  the 
valley. 

Fraser's  great  work  is  his  edition  of  Berkeley,  a 
labour  of  love  that  should  live  after  him.  He  has  two 
Berkeleys,  the  large  one  and  the  little  one,  and,  to  do 
him  justice,  it  was  the  little  one  he  advised  us  to  consult. 
I  never  read  the  large  one  myself,  which  is  in  a  number  of 
monster  tomes,  but  I  often  had  a  look  at  it  in  the  lil)rary, 
and  I  was  proud  to  think  that  an  Edinburgh  professor 

327 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

was  the  editor.  When  Glasgow  men  came  through  to 
:alk  of  their  professors  we  showed  them  the  big  Berkeley, 
and  after  that  they  were  reasonable.  There  was  one  man 
in  my  year  who  really  began  the  large  Berkeley,  but  after 
a  time  he  was  missing,  and  it  is  believed  that  some  day 
he  will  be  found  flattened  between  the  pages  of  the  first 
volume.  ... 

As  a  metaphysician  I  was  something  of  a  disappoint- 
ment. I  began  well,  standing,  if  I  recollect  aright,  in 
the  three  examinations,  first,  seventeenth,  and  seventy- 
seventh.  A  man  who  sat  beside  me  —  man  was  the 
word  we  used  —  gazed  at  me  reverently  when  I  came 
out  first,  and  I  could  see  by  his  eye  that  he  was  not  sure 
whether  I  existed  properly  so-called.  By  the  second 
exam,  his  doubts  had  gone,  and  by  the  third  he  was  surer 
of  me  than  of  himself.  He  came  out  fifty-seventh,  this 
being  the  grand  triumph  of  his  college  course.  He  was 
the  same  whose  key  translated  eras  donaberis  hacdo  "To- 
morrow you  will  be  presented  with  a  kid,"  but  who,  think- 
ing that  a  little  vulgar,  refined  it  down  to  "To-morrow 
you  will  be  presented  with  a  small  child." 

In  the  metaphysics  class  I  was  like  the  fountains  in 
the  quadrangle,  which  ran  dry  toward  the  middle  of  the 
session.  While  things  were  still  looking  hopeful  for  me, 
I  had  an  invitation  to  breakfast  with  the  Professor.  If 
the  fates  had  been  so  propitious  as  to  forward  me  that 
invitation,  it  is  possible  that  I  might  be  a  metaph3^sician 
to  this  day,  but  I  had  changed  my  lodgings,  and  when  I 
heard  of  the  affair,  all  was  over  .  The  Professor  asked  me 
to  stay  behind  one  day  after  the  lecture,  and  told  me  that 
he  had  got  his  note  back  with  "Left:  no  address,"  on  it. 
"However,"  he  said,  "you  may  keep  this,"  presenting 
me  with  the  invitation  for  the  Saturday  previously.  I 
328 


Teachers  of  Youth 

mention  this  to  show  that  even  professors  have  hearts. 
That  letter  is  preserved  with  the  autographs  of  three  editors, 
none  of  which  anybody  can  read. 

There  was  once  a  medical  student  who  came  up  to  my 
rooms  early  in  the  session,  and  I  proved  to  him  in  half 
an  hour  that  he  did  not  exist.  He  got  quite  frightened, 
and  I  can  still  see  his  white  face  as  he  sat  staring  at  me 
in  the  gloaming.  This  shows  what  metaphysics  can  do. 
He  has  recovered,  however,  and  is  sheep-farming  now, 
his  examiners  never  having  asked  him  the  right  questions. 

The  last  time  Fraser  ever  addressed  me  was  when  I 
was  capped.  He  said,  "I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Smith": 
and  one  of  the  other  professors  said,  "I  congratulate  you, 
Mr.  Fisher."  My  name  is  neither  Smith  nor  Fisher, 
but  no  doubt  the  thing  was  kindly  meant.  It  was  then, 
however,  that  the  professor  of  metaphysics  had  his  revenge 
on  me.     I  had  once  spelt  Fraser  with  a  "z." 

J.  M.  Barrie 

K.      <::>        ^:;:>        ^o        <:>        ^^>        ^^^        ^^^^ 

HE  never  encountered,  one  would  say,  the  attraction 
proper  to  draw  out  his  native  force.  Certainly, 
few  men  who  impressed  others  so  strongly,  and  of  whom 
so  many  good  things  are  rcmeml^ercd,  left  less  behind 
them  to  justify  contemporary  estimates.  He  printed 
nothing,  and  was,  perhaps,  one  of  those  the  electric  sparkles 
of  whose  brains,  discharged  naturally  and  healthfully 
in  conversation,  refuse  to  pass  through  the  non-conduct- 
ing medium  of  the  inkstand.  His  ana  would  make  a 
delightful  collection.  One  or  two  of  his  official  ones  will 
be  in  place  here.  Hearing  that  Porter's  flip  (which  was 
exemplary)  had  too  great  an  attraction  for  the  collegians, 

329 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

he  resolved  to  investigate  the  matter  himself.  Accordingly, 
entering  the  old  inn  one  day,  he  called  for  a  mug  of  it 
and  having  drunk  it,  said,  "And  so,  Mr.  Porter,  the  young 
gentlemen  come  to  drink  your  flip,  do  they?"  "Yes, 
sir,  sometimes."  "Ah,  well,  I  should  think  they  would. 
Good  day,  Mr.  Porter,"  and  departed,  saying  nothing  more; 
for  he  always  wisely  allowed  for  the  existence  of  a  certain 
amount  of  human  nature  in  ingenuous  youth.  At  another 
time  the  "Harvard  Washington"  asked  leave  to  go  into 
Boston  to  a  collation  which  had  been  offered  them. 
"Certainly,  young  gentlemen,"  said  the  President,  "but 
have  you  engaged  any  one  to  bring  home  your  muskets?" 
—  the  College  being  responsible  for  these  weapons,  which 
belong  to  the  State. 

Again,  when  a  student  came  with  a  physician's  certificate, 
and  asked  leave  of  absence,  K.  granted  it  at  once,  and  then 

added,  "By  the  way,  Mr. ,  persons  interested  in  the 

relation  which  exists  between  states  of  the  atmosphere  and 
health  have  noticed  a  curious  fact  in  regard  to  the  climate 
of  Cambridge,  especially  within  the  College  limits,  —  the 
very  small  number  of  deaths  in  proportion  to  the  cases  of 
dangerous  illness."  This  is  told  of  Judge  W.,  himself  a 
wit,  and  capable  of  enjoying  the  humorous  delicacy  of 
the  reproof. 

Shall  I  take  Brahmin  Alcott's  favourite  word,  and  call 
him  a  daemonic  man?  No,  the  Latin  genius  is  quite  old- 
fashioned  enough  for  me,  means  the  same  thing,  and  its 
derivative  geniality  expresses,  moreover,  the  base  of  K.'s 
being.  How  he  suggested  cloistered  repose,  and  quad- 
rangles mossy  with  centurial  associations!  How  easy 
he  was,  and  how  without  creak  was  every  movement  of 
his  mind!  This  life  was  good  enough  for  him,  and  the 
next  not  too  good.     The  gentleman-like  pervaded  even 

33° 


Teachers  of  Youth 

his  prayers.  His  were  not  the  manners  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  nor  of  a  man  of  the  other  world  either;  but  both 
met  in  him  to  balance  each  other  in  a  beautiful  equi- 
librium. Praying,  he  leaned  forward  upon  the  pulpit- 
cushion  as  for  conversation,  and  seemed  to  feel  himself 
(without  irreverence)  on  terms  of  friendly,  but  courteous, 
familiarity  with  Heaven.  The  expression  of  his  face  was 
that  of  tranquil  contentment,  and  he  appeared  less  to  be 
supplicating  expected  mercies  than  thankful  for  those 
already  found  —  as  if  he  were  saying  the  gratias  in  the 
refectory  of  the  Abbey  of  Theleme. 

/.  R.  Lowell 

P.     -v>  <iy  ^O  '^^^  '^^^^i'  ^^ri.-  ^v> 

"\  ^  7"H0  that  ever  saw  him,  can  forget  him  in  his  old  age, 
*  •  like  a  lusty  winter,  frosty  but  kindly,  with  great  silver 
spectacles  of  the  heroic  period,  such  as  scarce  twelve 
noses  of  these  degenerate  days  could  bear?  He  was  a 
natural  celibate,  not  dwelling  "like  the  fly  in  the  heart 
of  the  apple,"  but  like  a  lonely  bee  rather,  absconding 
himself  in  Hymettian  flowers,  incapable  of  matrimony 
as  a  solitary  palm-tree.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  tradition 
of  youthful  disappointment,  and  a  touching  story  which 

L.  told  me  perhaps  confirms  it.     When  Mrs. died,  a 

carriage  with  blinds  drawn  followed  the  funeral  train  at 
some  distance,  and  when  the  cofliin  had  been  lowered 
into  the  grave,  drove  hastily  away  to  escape  that  saddest 
of  earthly  sounds,  the  first  rattle  of  earth  upon  the  lid. 
It  was  afterwards  known  that  the  carriage  held  a  single 
mourner,  —  our  grim  and  undemonstrative  Professor. 

Yet  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  suppose  him  susceptible 
to  any  tender  passion  after  that  single  lapse  in  the  im- 

33^ 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

maturity  of  reason.  He  might  have  joined  the  Abderites 
in  singing  their  mad  chorus  from  the  Andromeda;  but 
it  would  have  been  in  deference  to  the  language  merely, 
and  with  a  silent  protest  against  the  sentiment.  I  fancy 
him  arranging  his  scrupulous  toilet,  not  for  Amaryllis 
or  Nesera,  but,  like  Machiavelli,  for  the  society  of  his 
beloved  classics.  His  ears  had  needed  no  prophylactic 
wax  to  pass  the  Sirens'  isle;  nay,  he  would  have  kept 
them  the  wider  open,  studious  of  the  dialect  in  which  they 
sang,  and  perhaps  triumphantly  detecting  the  .^olic 
digamma  in  their  lay.  A  thoroughly  single  man,  single- 
minded,  single-hearted,  buttoning  over  his  single  heart 
a  single-breasted  surtout,  and  wearing  always  a  hat  of 
a  single  fashion,  —  did  he  in  secret  regard  the  dual  number 
of  his  favourite  language  as  a  weakness?  The  son  of 
an  officer  of  distinction  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  he 
mounted  the  pulpit  with  the  erect  port  of  a  soldier,  and 
carried  his  cane  more  in  the  fashion  of  a  weapon  than  a 
staff,  but  with  the  point  lowered,  in  token  of  surrender 
to  the  peaceful  proprieties  of  his  calling.  Yet  sometimes 
the  martial  instincts  would  burst  the  cerements  of  black 
coat  and  clerical  neckcloth,  as  once,  when  the  students 
had  got  into  a  fight  upon  the  training-field,  and  the  li- 
centious soldiery,  furious  with  rum,  had  driven  them  at 
point  of  bayonet  to  the  College  gates,  and  even  threatened 
to  lift  their  arms  against  the  Muses'  bower. 

Then,  like  Major  Goffe  at  Deerfield,  suddenly  appeared 
the  gray-haired  P.,  all  his  father  resurgent  in  him,  and 
shouted:  "Now,  my  lads,  stand  your  ground,  you're  in 
the  right  now !  Don't  let  one  of  them  set  foot  within  the 
College  grounds!"  Thus  he  allowed  arms  to  get  the 
better  of  the  toga;  but  raised  it,  like  the  prophet's  breeches, 
into  a  banner,  and  carefully  ushered    resistance    with    a 


Teachers  of  Youth 

preamble  of  infringed  right.  Fidelity  was  his  strong 
characteristic,  and  burned  equably  in  him  through  a  hfe 
of  eighty-three  years.  Hill  drilled  himself  till  inflexible 
habit  stood  sentinel  before  all  those  postern-weaknesses 
which  temperament  leaves  unbolted  to  temptation. 

A  lover  of  the  scholar's  herb,  yet  loving  freedom  more, 
and  knowing  that  the  animal  appetites  ever  hold  one  hand 
behind  them  for  Satan  to  drop  a  bribe  in,  he  would  never 
have  two  cigars  in  his  house  at  once,  but  walked  every 
day  to  the  shop  to  fetch  his  single  diurnal  solace. 

Nor  would  he  trust  himself  with  two  on  Saturdays, 
preferring  (since  he  could  not  violate  the  Sabbath  even 
by  that  infinitesimal  traffic)  to  depend  on  Providential 
ravens,  which  were  seldom  wanting  in  the  shape  of  some 
black-coated  friend  who  knew  his  need  and  honoured  the 
scruple  that  occasioned  it. 

He  was  faithful,  also,  to  his  old  hats,  in  which  appeared 
the  constant  service  of  the  antique  world,  and  which  he 
preserved  for  ever,  piled  like  a  black  pagoda  under  his 
dressing-table.  No  scarecrow  was  ever  the  residuary 
legatee  of  his  beavers,  though  one  of  them  in  any  of  the 
neighbouring  peach -orchards  would  have  been  sovereign 
against  an  attack  of  Freshmen.  He  wore  them  all  in  turn, 
getting  through  all  in  the  course  of  the  year,  like  the  sun 
through  the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  modulating  them  according 
to  seasons  and  celestial  phenomena,  so  that  never  was 
spider-web  or  chickwccd  so  sensitive  a  weather  gauge  as 
they.  Nor  did  his  political  party  find  him  less  loyal. 
Taking  all  the  tickets,  he  would  seat  himself  apart,  and 
carefully  compare  them  with  the  list  of  regular  nominations 
as  printed  in  his  Daily  Advertiser,  before  he  dropped  his 
ballot  in  the  box.  In  less  amljitious  moments,  it  almost 
seems  to  me  that  I  would    rather  have  had  that  slow, 

333 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

conscientious  vote  of  P.'s  alone,  than  to  have  been  chosen 
Alderman  of  the  Ward! 

J.  R.  Lowell 


John  Stuart  Blackie  -^^y        •^^        -v>        <^        <:> 

LATELY  I  was  told  that  Blackie  —  one  does  not  say 
Mr.  Cromwell — is  no  longer  Professor  of  Greek  in 
Edinburgh  University.  What  nonsense  some  people 
talk.  As  if  Blackie  were  not  part  of  the  building.  In 
his  class  one  day  he  spoke  touchingly  of  the  time  when 
he  would  have  to  join  Socrates  in  the  Elysian  fields.  A 
student  cheered  —  no  one  knows  why.  "It  won't  be  for 
some  time  yet,"  added  John  Stuart. 

Blackie  takes  his  ease  at  home  in  a  dressing-gown  and 
straw  hat.  This  shows  that  his  plaid  really  does  come 
off.  "My  occupation  nowadays,"  he  said  to  me,  recently, 
"is  business,  blethers,  bothers,  beggars,  and  back-gam- 
mon." He  has  also  started  a  profession  of  going  to  public 
meetings,  and  hurrying  home  to  write  letters  to  the  news- 
papers about  them.  When  the  editor  shakes  the  manu- 
script a  sonnet  falls  out.  I  think  I  remember  the  Pro- 
fessor's saying  that  he  had  never  made  five  shillings  by 
his  verses.  To  my  mind  they  are  worth  more  than 
that. 

Though  he  has  explained  them  frequently,  there  is  still 
confusion  about  Blackie's  politics.  At  Manchester  they 
thought  he  was  a  Tory,  and  invited  him  to  address  them 
on  that  understanding.  "I  fancy  I  astonished  them," 
the  Professor  said  to  me.  This  is  quite  possible.  Then 
he  was  mistaken  for  a  Liberal. 

The  fact  is  that  Blackie  is  a  philosopher  who  follows 
the  golden  mean.     He  sees  this  himself.     A  philosopher 

334 


Teachers  of  Youth 

who  follows  the  golden  mean  is  thus  a  man  who  runs  zig- 
zag between  two  extremes.  You  will  observe  that  he  who 
does  this  is  some  time  before  he  arrives  anywhere. 

The  Professor  has  said  that  he  has  the  strongest  lungs 
in  Scotland.  Of  the  many  compliments  that  might  well 
be  paid  him,  not  the  least  worthy  would  be  this,  that  he 
is  as  healthy  mentally  as  physically.  Mrs.  Norton  begins 
a  novel  with  the  remark  that  one  of  the  finest  sights  con- 
ceivable is  a  well-preserved  gentleman  of  middle-age. 
It  will  be  some  time  yet  before  Blackie  reaches  middle- 
age,  but  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  you  if  you 
can  look  at  him  without  feeling  refreshed.  Did  you  ever 
watch  him  marching  along  Princes  Street  on  a  warm  day, 
when  every  other  person  was  broiling  in  the  sun?  His 
head  is  well  thrown  back,  the  staff,  grasped  in  the  middle, 
jerks  back  and  forward  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,  and  the 
plaid  flies  in  the  breeze.  Other  people's  clothes  are  hang- 
ing limp.     Blackie  carries  his  breeze  with  him.  .  .  . 

The  World  included  Blackie  in  its  list  of  "Celebrities 
at  Home."  It  said  that  the  door  was  opened  by  a  red- 
headed lassie.  That  was  probably  meant  for  local  colour, 
and  it  amused  every  one  who  knew  Mrs.  Blackie.  The 
Professor  is  one  of  the  most  genial  of  men,  and  will  show 
you  to  your  room  himself,  talking  six  languages.  This 
tends  to  make  the  conversation  one-sided,  but  he  does 
not  mind  that.  He  still  writes  a  good  deal,  spending 
several  hours  in  his  library  daily,  and  his  talk  is  as  brilliant 
as  ever.  His  writing  nowadays  is  less  sustained  than  it 
was,  and  he  prefers  Hitting  from  one  subject  to  another 
to  evolving  a  great  work.  When  he  diy)S  his  pen  into  an 
ink-pot  it  at  once  writes  a  sonnet  —  so  strong  is  the  force 
of  habit.  Recently  he  wrote  a  page  about  Carlyle  in  a 
little  book  issued  by  the  Edinburgh  students'  bazaar  com- 

335 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

mittee.  In  this  he  reproved  Carlyle  for  having  "bias." 
Blackie  wonders  why  people  should  have  bias. 

Some  readers  of  this  may  in  their  student  days  have 
been  invited  to  the  Greek  professor's  house  to  breakfast 
without  knowing  why  they  were  selected  from  among  so 
many.  It  was  not,  as  they  are  probably  aware,  because 
of  theirxlassical  attainments,  for  they  were  too  thoughtful 
to  be  in  the  prize-list ;  nor  was  it  because  of  the  charm  of 
their  manners  or  the  fascination  of  their  conversation. 
When  the  Professor  noticed  any  physical  peculiarity 
about  a  student,  such  as  a  lisp,  or  a  glass  eye,  or  one  leg 
longer  than  the  other,  or  a  broken  nose,  he  was  at  once 
struck  by  it,  and  asked  him  to  breakfast.  They  were 
very  lively  breakfasts,  the  eggs  being  served  in  tureens; 
but  sometimes  it  was  a  collection  of  the  maimed  and 
crooked,  and  one  person  at  the  table  —  not  the  host  him- 
self —  used  to  tremble  lest,  making  mirrors  of  each  other, 
the  guests  should  see  why  they  were  invited. 

Sometimes,  instead  of  asking  a  student  to  breakfast, 
Blackie  would  instruct  another  student  to  request  his 
company  to  tea.  Then  the  two  students  were  told  to 
talk  about  paulo-post  futures  in  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
and  to  read  their  Greek  Testament  and  to  go  to  the  pan- 
tomime. The  Professor  never  tired  of  giving  his  students 
advice  about  the  preservation  of  their  bodily  health.  He 
strongly  recommended  a  cold  bath  at  six  o'clock  every 
morning.  In  winter,  he  remarked  genially,  you  can 
break  the  ice  with  a  hammer.  According  to  himself, 
only  one  enthusiast  seems  to  have  followed  his  advice, 
and  he  died. 

In  Blackie's  classroom  there  used  to  be  a  demonstration 
every  time  he  mentioned  the  name  of  a  distinguished 
politician.     Whether    the    demonstration    took    the    Pro- 

3.36 


Teachers  of  Youth 

fessor  by  surprise,  or  whether  he  waited  for  it,  will  never, 
perhaps,  be  known.  But  Blackie  at  least  put  out  the 
gleam  in  his  eye,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  angry.  "I 
will  say  Beaconsfield,"  he  would  exclaim  (cheers  and 
hisses).  "Beaconsfield"  (uproar).  Then  he  would  stride 
forward,  and,  seizing  the  railing,  announce  his  intention 
of  saying  Beaconsfield  until  every  goose  in  the  room  was 
tired  of  cackling.  ("Question.")  "Beaconsfield."  ("No, 
no.")  "Beaconsfield."  ("Hear,  hear,"  and  shouts  of 
"Gladstone.")  "Beaconsfield."  ("Three  cheers  for 
Dizzy.")  Eventually  the  class  would  be  dismissed  as  — 
(i)  idiots,  (2)  a  bear  garden,  (3)  a  flock  of  sheep,  (4)  a 
pack  of  numskulls,  (5)  hissing  serpents.  The  Professor 
would  retire,  apparently  fuming,  to  his  anteroom,  and 
five  minutes  afterwards  he  would  be  playing  himself  down 
the  North  Bridge  on  imaginary  bagpipes.  .  .  . 

In  the  old  days  the  Greek  professor  recited  a  poem  in 
honour  of  the  end  of  the  session.  He  composed  it  him- 
self, and,  as  known  to  mc,  it  took  the  form  of  a  graduate's 
farewell  to  his  Alma  Mater.  Sometimes  he  would  knock 
a  map  down  as  if  overcome  with  emotion,  and  at  critical 
moments  a  student  in  the  back -benches  would  accompany 
him  on  a  penny  trumpet.  Now,  I  believe,  the  Hellenic 
Club  takes  the  place  of  the  classroom.  All  the  eminent 
persons  in  Edinburgh  attend  its  meetings,  and  Blackie, 
the  .Athenian,  is  in  the  chair.  The  policeman  in  Douglas 
Crescent  looks  skeered  when  you  ask  him  what  takes 
place  on  these  occasions.  It  is  generally  understood  that 
toward  the  end  of  the  meeting  they  agree  to  read  Greek 
next  lime. 

/.  M.  Barrie 


337 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

S.   <0  ^^^^  •'C:^  <iy  ^^^  ■'^^  ^Ci>' 

THEN  there  was  S.,  whose  resounding  "Haw,  haw, 
haw!  by  George!"  positively  enlarged  the  income 
of  every  dweller  in  Cambridge.  In  downright,  honest 
good  cheer  and  good  neighbourhood,  it  was  worth  five 
hundred  a  year  to  every  one  of  us.  Its  jovial  thunders 
cleared  the  mental  air  of  every  sulky  cloud.  Perpetual 
childhood  dwelt  in  him ,  the  childhood  of  his  native  South- 
ern France,  and  its  fixed  air  was  all  the  time  bub- 
-  bling  up  and  sparkling  and  winking  in  his  eyes.  It  seemed 
as  if  his  placid  old  face  were  only  a  mask  behind  which  a 
merry  Cupid  had  ambushed  himself,  peeping  out  all  the 
while,  and  ready  to  drop  it  when  the  play  grew  tiresome. 
Every  word  he  uttered  seemed  to  be  hilarious,  no  matter 
what  the  occasion.  If  he  were  sick,  and  you  visited  him, 
if  he  had  met  with  a  misfortune  (and  there  are  few  men 
so  wise  that  they  can  look  even  at  the  back  of  a  retiring 
sorrow  with  composure),  it  was  all  one;  his  great  laugh 
went  off  as  if  it  were  set  like  an  alarm-clock,  to  run  down, 
whether  he  would  or  no,  at  a  certain  tick.  Even  after  an 
ordinary  Good  morning/  (especially  if  to  an  old  pupil, 
and  in  French),  the  wonderful  Haw,  haw,  haw!  by  George! 
would  burst  upon  you  unexpectedly,  like  a  salute  of  artillery 
on  some  holiday,  which  you  had  forgotten.  Everything 
was  a  joke  to  him,  —  that  the  oath  of  allegiance  had  been 
administered  to  him  by  your  grandfather,  —  that  he  had 
taught  Prescott  his  first  Spanish  (of  which  he  was  proud), 
—  no  matter  what.  Everything  came  to  him  marked  by 
Nature  Right  side  up,  with  care,  and  he  kept  it  so.  The 
world  to  him,  as  to  all  of  us,  was  like  a  medal,  on  the 
obverse  of  which  is  stamped  the  image  of  Joy,  and  on  the 
reverse  that  of  Care.     S.  never  took  the  foolish  pains  to 

33^ 


Teachers  of  Youth 

look  at  that  other  side,  even  if  he  knew  of  its  existence; 
much  less  would  it  have  occurred  to  him  to  turn  it  into  view, 
and  insist  that  his  friends  should  look  at  it  with  him. 
Nor  was  this  a  mere  outside  good-humour;  its  source 
was  deeper,  in  a  true  Christian  kindliness  and  amenity. 
Once,  when  he  had  been  knocked  down  by  a  tipsily- 
driven  sleigh,  and  was  urged  to  prosecute  the  offenders, 
"No,  no,"  he  said,  his  wounds  still  fresh,  "young  blood! 
young  blood !  it  must  have  its  way;  I  was  young  myself." 
Was!  few  men  come  into  life  so  young  as  S.  went  out. 
He  landed  in  Boston  (then  the  front  door  of  America) 
in  '93,  and  in  honour  of  the  ceremony,  had  his  head 
powdered  afresh,  and  put  on  a  suit  of  court-mourning 
before  he  set  foot  on  the  wharf.  My  fancy  always  dressed 
him  in  that  violet  silk,  and  his  soul  certainly  wore  a  full 
court-suit.  What  was  there  ever  like  his  bow?  It  was 
as  if  you  had  received  a  decoration,  and  could  write  your- 
self gentleman  from  that  day  forth.  His  hat  rose,  rcgreet- 
ing  your  own,  and,  having  sailed  through  the  stately  curve 
of  the  old  regime,  sank  gently  back  over  that  placid  brain, 
which  harboured  no  thought  less  white  than  the  powder 
which  covered  it.  I  have  sometimes  imagined  that  there 
was  a  graduated  arc  over  his  head,  invisible  to  other  eyes 
than  his,  by  which  he  meted  out  to  each  his  rightful  share 
of  castorial  consideration.  I  carry  in  my  memory  three 
exemplary  bows.  The  first  is  that  of  an  old  t)cggar,  who, 
already  carrying  in  his  hand  a  white  hat,  the  gift  of  be- 
nevolence, took  off  the  black  one  from  his  head  also,  and 
profoundly  saluted  me  with  both  at  once,  giving  me,  in 
return  for  my  alms,  a  dual  benediction,  puzzling  as  a  nod 
from  Janus  Hifrons.  The  .second  I  received  from  an  old 
Cardinal,  who  was  taking  his  walk  just  outside  the  Porta 
San  Giovanni  at  Rome.     I  paid  him  the  courtesy  due  to 

339 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

his  age  and  rank.  Forthwith  rose,  first,  the  Hat ;  second, 
the  hat  of  his  Confessor;  third,  that  of  another  priest  who 
attended  him;  fourth,  the  fringed  cocked-hat  of  his  coach- 
man; fifth  and  sixth,  the  ditto,  ditto,  of  his  two  footmen. 
Here  was  an  investment,  indeed;  six  hundred  per  cent, 
interest  on  a  single  bow!  The  third  bow,  worthy  to  be 
noted  in  one's  almanac  among  the  other  mirabilia,  was 
that  of  S.,  in  which  courtesy  had  mounted  to  the  last  round 
of  her  ladder,  —  and  tried  to  draw  it  up  after  her. 

/.  R.  Lowell 

Richard  Farmer       ^ci^         ^o^         ^>         'O         -^ix 

THERE  were  three  things,  it  was  said,  that  Richard 
Farmer  loved  above  all  others,  and  there  were  three 
things  that  nobody  could  persuade  him  to  do.  The  three 
things  that  he  loved  above  all  others  were  —  old  port, 
old  clothes,  and  old  books;  and  the  three  things  that 
nobody  could  persuade  him  to  do  were  —  to  go  to  bed  at 
night,  to  rise  in  the  morning,  and  to  settle  an  account. 

At  the  first  flush  such  a  sextette  of  characteristics  may 
not  perhaps  be  considered  the  best  equipment  for  a  D.D. 
and  guardian  of  youth.  And  yet  I  don't  know:  to  love 
old  port  suggests  a  convivial  and  cheerful  mind,  and  if 
any  teetotaler  objects  one  can  always  remark,  "How  then, 
if  the  Doctor  had  loved  new  port?";  to  love  old  clothes 
argues  a  want  of  any  chilling  formality  or  conceit;  a  love 
of  old  books  connotes  the  scholar  and  the  humorist;  to 
be  unwilling  to  go  to  bed  fortifies  the  impression  of  friend- 
liness that  the  love  of  old  port  set  up ;  to  be  unwilling  to 
rise  in  the  morning  is  very,  very  human;  while  to  be 
slow  in  paying  one's  own  debts,  if,  as  in  Dr.  Farmer's 
case,  it  is  accompanied  by  an  equal  tardiness  in  demand- 
340 


Teachers  of  Youth 

ing  the  discharge  of  the  debts  of  others,  is  not  a  damning 
offence.  The  Doctor,  through  much  reading  and  book 
hunting  and  smoking  and  joking,  had  simply  come  to  be 
so  detached  and  unworldly  as  to  look  upon  other  people's 
purses  as  his,  and  his  purse  as  other  people's.  Under- 
graduates were  continually  borrowing  from  him  and 
never  paying  back;  and  to  be  so  ordered  is,  in  a  selfish 
and  sordid  world,  no  bad  thing.  I  do  not  set  up  Richard 
Farmer,  D.D.,  as  a  saint;  but  he  was  an  undeviatingly 
cheerful  man  of  great  erudition,  and  when  he  died  all 
Cambridge  mourned.     That  is  not  a  bad  achievement. 

Born  in  1735,  of  rich,  middle-class  parents,  he  went 
to  Emmanuel  College  in  1750  as  a  pensioner;  was  a  senior 
optime  in  1757,  and  winner  of  the  silver  cup  given  to  the 
best  graduate.  In  1760  he  became  classical  tutor  to  the 
College  and  also  curate  of  Swavesey.  There  he  "was 
a  greater  adept  in  cracking  a  joke  than  in  unhinging  a 
Calvinist's  creed  or  in  quieting  a  gloomy  conscience.  He, 
however,  possessed  a  spirit  of  benevolence,  and  knew  how 
to  perform  a  generous  action  to  a  distressed  family." 

For  all  his  slovenliness  and  tobacco  and  gigantic  in- 
dolence. Farmer  was  made  not  only  Master  of  Emmanuel 
College  but  in  time  Vice-Chancellor  of  the  University; 
and  it  was  as  Vice-Chancellor  that  his  more  energetic 
fighting  spirit  —  dormant  for  the  rest  of  his  life  —  broke 
out.  The  University  had  voted  an  address  to  George  III. 
in  support  of  the  American  policy  of  his  Government; 
but  the  seal  of  the  University  could  not  be  afSxed  because 
a  member  of  the  Caput,  who  kept  the  key  of  the  room  where 
the  seal  resided,  was  against  the  address.  What  does 
Richard  Farmer,  D.D.,  but  get  a  sledge  hammer  and  him- 
self break  open  the  door?  Not,  as  I  believe  he  afterwards 
explained,  because  he  was  so  enamoured  of  this  country's 

341 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

dealings  with  America,  but  because  as  Vice-Chancellor 
of  the  University  it  was  his  duty  to  see  that  the  address  was 
properly  sealed  and  despatched.  "We  hope,"  wrote 
some  foolish  contributor  to  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica, 
"that  he  employed  a  servant  to  break  the  door;  and, 
indeed,  as  Vice-Chancellor,  he  must  have  had  so  many 
servants  at  his  command  that  it  is  not  conceivable  he 
would  wield  the  sledge  hammer  himself."  From  this 
hope  I  dissociate  myself  with  the  utmost  emphasis.  I 
hope  that  the  Doctor  not  only  wielded  the  hammer  him- 
self, but  got  an  honourable  blister  in  the  process.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  he  meant  only  to  do  his  duty,  but  rewards 
followed.  He  could  twice  have  been  made  a  bishop  had 
he  cared  thus  to  dignify  his  legs;  but  he  refused.  He 
was,  however,  made  canon  of  this  cathedral  and  pre- 
bendary of  that;  although  he  never  gave  up  Emmanuel 
College. 

Farmer's  great  hobby  was  the  acquisition  of  books. 
Dressed  in  shocking  clothes,  he  spent  hours  of  his  London 
time  (he  was  for  long  one  of  the  preachers  at  the  Chapel 
Royal,  Whitehall,  and  later  had  a  residence  at  Amen 
Corner)  poring  over  the  book-stalls.  Dibdin  has  him  in 
Bihliomania.  "How  shall  I  talk  of  thee,  and  of  thy 
wonderful  collection,  O  rare  Richard  Farmer?"  he  writes, 
"...  of  thy  scholarship,  acuteness,  pleasantry,  singu- 
larities, varied  learning,  and  colloquial  powers !  Thy 
name  will  live  long  among  scholars  in  general;  and  in 
the  bosoms  of  virtuous  and  learned  bibliomaniacs  thy 
memory  shall  ever  be  enshrined !  .  .  .  Peace  to  thy 
honest  spirit;  for  thou  wert  wise  without  vanity,  learned 
without  pedantry,  and  joyous  without  vulgarity!" 

We  have  a  glimpse  of  his  taste  in  books  —  which  he 
liked  to  be  out-of-the-way  rather  than  conventional  —  in 

342 


Teachers  of  Youth 

the  account  of  a  visit  paid  to  him  by  Dr.  Johnson  in  1765. 
Boswell  was  not  tliere,  but  fortunately  tlie  Rev.  B.  N. 
Turner  was,  and  the  description  of  the  meeting  was  fur- 
nished to  the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  The  interview, 
which  was  held  at  Emmanuel  College,  in  Farmer's  rooms, 
was,  says  Mr.  Turner,  "uncommonly  joyous  on  both  sides." 

Johnson:  "Mr.  Farmer,  I  understand  you  have  a  large 
collection  of  very  rare  and  curious  books." 

Farmer:  "Why,  yes,  sir,  to  be  sure  I  have  plenty  of  all 
such  reading  as  was  never  read." 

Johnson:    "Will  you  favour  me  with  a  specimen,  sir?" 

Farmer,  considering  for  a  moment,  reached  down 
Markham's  Booke  of  Armorie,  and,  turning  to  a  particular 
page,  presented  it  to  the  Doctor,  who,  with  rolling  head, 
attentively  perused  it.  The  passage  having  been  pre- 
viously pointed  out  to  myself,  I  am  luckily  enabled  to  lay 
it  before  the  reader,  because  I  find  it  quoted,  totidem 
verbis,  as  a  great  curiosity,  which  it  certainly  is,  at  line  loi 
of  the  first  part  of  The  Pursuits  of  Literature.  The  words 
in  question  are  said  to  be  the  conclusion  of  the  first  chapter 
of  Markham's  Booke,  entitled  "The  Difference  between 
Churlcs  and  Gentlemen,"  and  is  as  follows:  "From  the 
offspring  of  gentlemanly  Japhct  came  Abraham,  Moses, 
Aaron,  and  the  Prophets,  &c.,  &c.,  .  .  .  and  also  the 
king  of  the  right  line  of  Mary,  of  whom  that  only  absolute 
gentleman  Jesus,  Gentleman  by  his  mother  Mary,  Princesse 
of  Coat  Armoire,"  &c.  .  .  . 

If  you  can  conceive  a  cast  of  countenance  expressive 
at  once  of  both  pleasantry  and  horror,  that  was  the  one 
which  our  sage  assumed  when  he  exclaimed,  "Now  I 
am  shocked,  sir.  Now  1  am  shocked!"  which  was  only 
answered  by  Farmer  with  his  usual  "Ha!  ha!  ha!"  for 
even   blasphemy,  where  it  is  unintentional,  may  be  so 

343 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

thoroughly  ridiculous   as  merely  to   excite   the  laugh  of 
pity! 

During  the  same  visit  to  Cambridge  the  two  Doctors 
met  again,  and  Mr.  Turner  again  obliges  with  a  report 
of  the  encounter:  "In  the  height  of  our  convivial  hilarity, 
our  great  man  exclaimed,  'Come,  now,  I'll  give  you  a 
test:  now  I'll  try  who  is  a  true  antiquary  amongst  you. 
Has  any  of  this  company  ever  met  with  the  "History  of 
Glorianus  and  Gloriana?"'  Farmer,  drawing  the  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth,  followed  by  a  cloud  of  smoke,  instantly 
said,  'I've  got  the  book.'  'Gi'  me  your  hand,  gi'  me 
your  hand,'  said  Johnson;  'you  are  the  man  after  my 
own  heart.'  And  the  shaking  of  two  such  hands,  with 
two  such  happy  faces  attached  to  them,  could  hardly, 
I  think,  be  matched  in  the  whole  annals  of  literature!" 

Farmer  died  in  1797,  leaving  a  will,  on  half  a  leaf  torn 
out  of  an  old  book,  running  thus:  "I  give  to  my  brother, 
Joseph  Farmer,  all  my  property,  not  doubting  of  his  using 
it  for  the  benefit  of  our  family." 

E.  V.  L. 


344 


XXIV 
THE    GENTLE 

The  Cardinal's  Friends      ^o         5>         -;::^         o 

T  HAVE  closed  this  history  of  myself  with  St.  Philip's 
•*■  name  upon  St.  Philip's  feast-day;  and,  having  done 
so,  to  whom  can  I  more  suitably  offer  it,  as  a  memorial 
of  affection  and  gratitude,  than  to  St.  Philip's  sons,  my 
dearest  brothers  of  this  House,  the  Priests  of  the  Bir- 
mingham Oratory,  .\mbrose  St.  John,  Henry  Austin  Mills, 
Henry  Bittleston,  Edward  Caswall,  William  Paine  Neville, 
and  Henry  Ignatius  Dudley  Ryder?  who  have  been  so 
faithful  to  me;  who  have  been  so  sensitive  of  my  needs; 
who  have  been  so  indulgent  to  my  failings;  who  have 
carried  me  through  so  many  trials;  who  have  grudged 
no  sacrifice,  if  I  asked  for  it;  who  have  been  so  cheerful 
under  discouragements  of  my  causing;  who  have  done  so 
many  good  works,  and  let  me  have  the  credit  of  them ;  — 
with  whom  I  have  lived  so  long,  with  whom  I  hope  to  die. 
And  to  you  es[)ecially,  dear  Ambrose  St.  John;  whom 
f/orl  gave  me,  when  He  took  every  one  else  away;  who 
are  the  link  between  my  old  life  and  my  new;  who  have 
now  for  twenty-one  years  been  so  devoted  to  me,  so  patient, 
so  zealous,  so  tender;  who  have  let  me  lean  so  hard  upon 

345 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

you ;  who  have  watched  me  so  narrowly ;  who  have  never 
thought  of  yourself,  if  I  was  in  question. 

And  in  you  I  gather  up  and  bear  in  memory  those  familiar 
affectionate  companions  and  counsellors,  who  in  Oxford 
were  given  to  me,  one  after  another,  to  be  my  daily  solace 
and  relief;  and  all  those  others,  of  great  name  and  high 
example,  who  were  my  thorough  friends,  and  showed 
me  true  attachment  in  times  long  past;  and  also  those 
many  younger  men,  whether  I  knew  them  or  not,  who  have 
never  been  disloyal  to  me  by  word  or  deed;  and  of  all 
these,  thus  various  in  their  relations  to  me,  those  more 
especially  who  have  since  joined  the  Catholic  Church. 

And  I  earnestly  pray  for  this  whole  company,  with  a 
hope  against  hope,  that  all  of  us,  who  once  were  so  united, 
and  so  happy  in  our  union,  may  even  now  be  brought  at 
length,  by  the  Power  of  the  Divine  Will,  into  One  Fold 

and  under  One  Shepherd. 

/.  H.  Newman 
May  26,  1864 

In  Festo  Corp.  Christ. 

Saint  Francis  -cy        <:>        <:>        ^>        ^^>         -'^^ 

FRANCIS,  the  poor  man,  the  father  of  the  poor,  making 
himself  like  unto  the  poor  in  all  things,  used  to  be 
distressed  to  see  any  one  poorer  than  himself,  not 
because  he  coveted  vain  renown,  but  only  from  a  feeling 
of  sympathy;  and  though  he  was  content  with  a  very 
common  and  rough  tunic,  he  often  longed  to  share  it  with 
some  poor  man.  But  in  order  that  this  richest  of  poor 
men,  led  by  his  great  feeling  of  tenderness,  might  (in 
whatsoever  way)  help  the  poor,  he  would  in  very  cold 
weather  ask  the  rich  of  this  world  to  lend  him  a  mantle 
346 


The  Gentle 

or  furs.  When  in  their  devotion  they  complied  with  his 
request  even  more  readily  than  he  had  made  it,  he  would 
say  to  them:  "I  will  take  this  from  you  on  the  under- 
standing that  you  do  not  expect  to  have  it  back  any  more" ; 
and  then  with  joy  and  exultation  he  would  clothe  the  first 
poor  man  he  met  with  whatever  had  been  given  him.  He 
was  very  much  distressed  if  he  saw  any  poor  man  harshly 
spoken  to,  or  if  he  heard  any  one  utter  a  curse  against  any 
creature. 

For  instance,  it  happened  that  a  brother  had  given  a 
sharp  answer  to  a  poor  man  who  had  asked  alms,  saying: 
"See  to  it,  for  perhaps  thou  art  a  rich  man  feigning  poverty." 
When  St.  Francis,  the  father  of  the  poor,  heard  of  it  he 
was  deeply  grieved,  and  sharply  rebuked  the  brother 
who  had  spoken  thus,  and  bade  him  strip  himself  before 
the  poor  man,  kiss  his  feet  and  beg  his  pardon.  For  he 
used  to  say:  "He  who  reviles  a  poor  man  does  a  wrong 
to  Christ,  for  the  poor  man  bears  the  noble  ensign  of 
Christ  Who  made  Himself  poor  in  this  world  for  us." 
Often  therefore  when  he  found  poor  people  laden  with 
wood  or  other  burdens  he  would  help  them  by  giving  the 
support  of  his  own  shoulders,  even  though  very  weak. 
He  overflowed  with  the  spirit  of  charity,  pitying  not  only 
men  who  were  sulTering  need,  but  even  the  dumb  brutes, 
reptiles,  birds,  and  other  creatures  with  and  without 
sensation.  But  among  all  kinds  of  animals  he  loved  little 
lambs  with  a  special  love  and  a  readier  affection,  because 
the  humility  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is,  in  Holy  Scripture, 
most  frequently  and  aptly  illustrated  by  the  simile  of  a 
lamb.  So  too  especially  he  would  embrace  more  fondly 
and  behold  more  gladly  all  those  things  wherein  might 
be  found  some  allegorical  similitude  of  the  Son  of  God. 
Thus  when  he  was  once  journeying  through  the  March 

347 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

of  Ancona,  and  after  preaching  God's  word  in  that  city 
had  set  out  towards  Osimo  with  Messer  Paul  whom  he 
had  appointed  Minister  of  all  the  brethren  in  that  province, 
he  found  in  the  fields  a  shepherd  feeding  a  herd  of  she- 
goats  and  he -goats.  Among  the  multitude  of  goats  there 
was  one  little  sheep  going  along  in  humble  fashion  and 
quietly  grazing.  When  Francis  saw  her  he  stopped,  and, 
moved  in  his  heart  with  grief,  said  to  the  brother  who  ac- 
companied him,  groaning  aloud:  "Seest  thou  not  this 
sheep  which  is  walking  so  meekly  among  these  she-goats 
and  he-goats?  I  tell  thee  even  so  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
walked  meek  and  lowly  among  the  Pharisees  and  chief 
priests.  Wherefore  I  ask  thee,  my  son,  for  love  of  Him, 
to  take  pity  with  me  on  this  little  sheep,  and  let  us  pay 
the  price  and  get  her  out  from  among  these  goats."  And 
brother  Paul,  wondering  at  his  grief,  began  to  grieve  with 
him.  But  they  had  nothing  but  the  poor  tunics  they  wore, 
and  as  they  were  anxiously  considering  how  the  price 
might  be  paid,  a  merchant  who  was  on  a  journey  came  up, 
and  offered  the  price  they  desired.  They  took  the  sheep, 
giving  thanks  to  God,  and  came  to  Osimo;  and  went  in 
to  the  bishop  of  that  city,  who  received  them  with  great 
reverence. 

The  lord  bishop,  however,  wondered  both  at  the  sheep 
which  the  man  of  God  was  leading  and  at  the  affection 
wherewith  he  was  moved  toward  her.  But  after  Christ's 
servant  had  unfolded  to  him  at  some  length  the  parable 
of  the  sheep,  the  bishop,  pricked  at  the  heart,  gave  thanks 
to  God  for  the  purity  of  the  man  of  God.  Next  day,  on 
leaving  the  city,  Francis  considered  what  he  should  do 
with  the  sheep,  and  by  his  companion's  advice  he  handed 
it  over  to  a  monastery  of  the  handmaids  of  Christ  at  S. 
Severino  to  be  taken  care  of.  The  venerable  handmaids 
348 


The  Gentle 

of  Christ  received  the  sheep  with  joy  as  a  great  gift  bestowed 
on  them  by  God,  and  they  kept  it  carefully  for  a  long  time, 
and  wove  of  the  wool  a  tunic  which  they  sent  to  the  blessed 
father  Francis  at  the  church  of  S.  Maria  de  Portiuncula 
on  the  occasion  of  a  Chapter  (of  the  Order).  The  Saint 
of  God  received  it  with  great  reverence  and  exultation  of 
mind,  and  embraced  and  kissed  it  again  and  again,  in- 
viting all  the  bystanders  to  share  his  joy. 

.\nother  time  when  he  was  passing  through  that  same 
March  and  the  same  brother  was  gladly  accompanying 
him,  he  met  a  man  carrj'ing  two  lambs,  bound  and  hang- 
ing over  his  shoulders,  which  he  was  taking  to  market 
to  sell.  When  blessed  Francis  heard  them  bleating  he 
was  moved  with  compassion,  and  came  near  and  touched 
them,  showing  pity  for  them  like  a  mother  towards  her 
crying  child.  And  he  said  to  the  man :  "Why  dost  thou 
thus  torment  my  brother  lambs  by  carrying  them  bound 
and  hanging  thus?"  The  man  answered:  "I  am  taking 
them  to  market  to  sell,  for  I  must  get  a  price  for  them." 
"What  will  become  of  them  afterwards?"  said  the  holy 
man.  "The  buyers  will  kill  and  eat  them."  "God 
forbid,"  answered  the  Saint.  "This  must  not  be;  but 
take  the  cloak  I  am  wearing  for  their  price,  and  give  the 
lambs  to  me."  The  man  gave  him  the  lambs  and  took 
the  cloak  gladly,  for  it  was  of  much  greater  value.  (St. 
i'rancis  had  borrowed  it  that  day  from  a  faithful  man,  to 
keep  off  the  cold.)  When  he  had  received  the  lambs  he 
carefully  considered  what  he  should  do  with  them,  and 
after  consulting  with  his  companion  gave  them  back  to  the 
man,  charging  him  never  to  sell  them  or  do  them  hurt, 
but  to  keep  them,  feed  them,  and  take  good  care  of  them. 
r'>en  towards  little  worms  he  glowed  with  exceeding  love, 
i)ecause  he  had  read  that  word  concerning  the  Saviour:  "I 
349 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

am  a  worm,  and  no  man."  Wherefore  he  used  to  pick 
them  up  in  the  way  and  put  them  in  a  safe  place,  that  they 
might  not  be  crushed  by  the  feet  of  passers  by. 

O  how  fair,  how  bright,  how  glorious  did  he  appear  in 
innocency  of  life,  in  simplicity  of  word,  in  purity  of  heart, 
in  the  love  of  God,  in  charity  to  the  brethren,  in  ardent 
obedience,  in  willing  submission,  in  angelic  aspect !  He 
was  charming  in  his  manners,  of  gentle  disposition,  easy 
in  his  talk;  most  apt  in  exhortation,  most  faithful  in  what 
he  was  put  in  trust  with,  far-seeing  in  counsel,  effectual 
in  business,  gracious  in  all  things;  calm  in  mind,  sweet 
in  temper,  sober  in  spirit,  uplifted  in  contemplation, 
assiduous  in  prayer,  and  fervent  in  all  things.  He  was 
stedfast  in  purpose,  firm  in  virtue,  persevering  in  grace, 
and  in  all  things  the  same.  He  was  swift  to  pardon  and 
slow  to  be  angry.  He  was  of  ready  wit,  and  had  an  ex- 
cellent memory,  he  was  subtle  in  discussion,  circumspect 
in  choice,  and  simple  in  all  things;  stern  to  himself, 
tender  to  others,  in  all  things  discreet.  He  was  a  man 
most  eloquent,  of  cheerful  countenance,  of  kindly  aspect, 
free  from  cowardice,  and  destitute  of  arrogance.  He  was 
of  middle  height,  inclining  to  shortness;  his  head  was 
of  moderate  size,  and  round;  his  face  somewhat  long  and 
prominent,  his  forehead  smooth  and  small;  his  eyes  were 
black,  of  moderate  size,  and  with  a  candid  look;  his  hair 
was  dark,  his  eyebrows  straight;  his  nose  symmetrical, 
thin,  and  straight;  his  ears  upright,  but  small;  his  temples 
smooth.  His  words  were  kindly,  [but]  fiery  and  pene- 
trating; his  voice  was  powerful,  sweet-toned,  clear  and 
sonorous.  His  teeth  were  set  close  together,  white,  and 
even;  his  lips  thin  and  fine,  his  beard  black  and  rather 
scanty,  his  neck  slender;  his  shoulders  straight,  his  arrps 
short,  his  hands  attenuated,  with  long  fingers  and  nails. 


The  Gentle 

his  legs  slight,  his  feet  small,  his  skin  fine,  and  his  flesh 
very  spare.  His  clothing  was  rough,  his  sleep  very  brief, 
his  hand  most  bountiful.  And,  for  that  he  w^as  most 
humble,  he  showed  all  meekness  to  all  men,  adapting 
himself  in  profitable  fashion  to  the  behaviour  of  all. 
Among  the  saints,  holier  [than  they],  among  the  sinners 
he  was  like  one  of  themselves.  .  .  . 

In  beautiful  things  he  recognised  Him  who  is  supremely 
beautiful;  all  good  things  cried  out  to  him,  "He  who 
made  us  is  the  Best."  Everywhere  he  followed  the  Be- 
loved by  the  traces  He  has  impressed  on  all  things;  he 
made  for  himself  of  all  things  a  ladder  whereby  he  might 
reach  the  Throne.  He  eml)raced  all  things  with  an 
unheard-of  rapture  of  devotion,  speaking  to  them  of 
the  Lord  and  exhorting  them  to  praise  Him.  He  refused 
to  put  out  lanterns,  lamps,  or  candles,  not  suffering  his 
hand  to  dim  the  brightness  which  he  regarded  as  a  sign 
of  the  Eternal  Light.  Over  rocks  he  walked  reverently 
out  of  regard  for  Him  who  is  called  the  Rock.  When 
he  had  to  recite  the  verse  "On  a  rock  hast  thou  exalted 
me,"  he  used  to  say,  in  order  to  employ  a  more  reverent 
expression,  "Beneath  [my]  feet  hast  Thou  exalted  me." 
When  the  brethren  were  cutting  wood  he  forbad  them 
to  cut  down  a  whole  tree,  so  that  it  might  have  hope  of 
sprouting  again.  He  bade  the  gardener  not  dig  up  the 
outlying  parts  round  the  garden,  in  order  that  in  their 
seasons  the  greenness  of  gra.ss  and  the  beauty  of  flowers 
might  proclaim  the  beauteous  Father  of  all  things.  In 
the  garden  he  ordered  a  plot  to  be  set  apart  for  sweet- 
scented  and  flowering  plants,  that  they  might  cause  those 
that  should  look  upon  them  to  remember  the  Eternal 
Sweetness.  He  picked  up  worms  from  the  way  that  they 
might  not  be  trodden  on,  and  ordered  honey  and  the  best 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

wine  to  be  provided  for  bees  that  they  might  not  perish 
from  want  in  the  cold  of  winter.  He  called  by  the  name 
of  brother  all  animals,  though  in  all  their  kinds  the  gentle 
were  his  favourites.  Who  is  sufficient  to  tell  all  these 
things  ? 

For  that  Original  Goodness,  which  shall  be  all  in  all, 
shone  forth  already  to  this  Saint  as  all  in  all. 

All  the  creatures  therefore  strove  to  return  the  Saint's  love 
and  to  show  their  gratitude  for  his  services;  they  rejoiced 
in  his  caresses,  granted  his  requests,  and  obeyed  his  com- 
mands. Let  me  relate  a  few  instances.  When  he  was 
suffering  from  disease  of  the  eyes  and  had  been  induced 
to  submit  to  treatment,  a  surgeon  was  summoned  to  the 
place.  So  he  came  and  brought  an  iron  instrument  for 
cauterisation,  and  ordered  it  to  be  put  into  the  fire  until 
it  should  be  red  hot.  Then  the  blessed  father,  to  encourage 
his  body  now  shaken  by  horror,  spoke  thus  to  the  fire: 
"My  brother  fire,  who  dost  outvie  all  other  things  in  splen- 
dour, the  Most  High  hath  created  thee  mighty,  fair,  and 
useful.  Be  kind  to  me  at  this  hour,  be  courteous,  for  I 
have  loved  thee  of  old  in  the  Lord.  I  pray  the  great  Lord 
who  created  thee  to  temper  thy  heat  now  so  that,  burning 
me  gently,  I  may  be  able  to  bear  it."  Having  finished  his 
prayer  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  the  fire,  and 
thenceforth  remained  undismayed.  The  surgeon  took  the 
glowing  iron  in  his  hands:  the  brethren,  yielding  to  human 
weakness,  fled :  the  Saint  with  cheerful  readiness  exposed 
himself  to  the  iron.  The  iron  was  plunged  hissing  into 
the  tender  flesh,  and  the  cauterisation  was  slowly  made 
from  the  ear  to  the  eyebrow.  What  pain  that  fire  in- 
flicted is  declared  by  the  words  of  the  Saint,  who  knew 
best  what  it  was,  for  when  the  brethren  who  had  fled 
came  back  the  father  said  with  a  smile:    "Faint-hearted 

352 


The  Gentle 

and  poor-spirited  ones,  wherefore  did  ye  fly?  I  tell  you 
of  a  truth  I  felt  no  heat  of  fire  nor  any  pain  in  my  flesh." 
Then  turning  to  the  doctor:  "If  the  flesh  is  not  well  burnt," 
said  he,  "apply  the  iron  again."  The  doctor,  whose  ex- 
perience in  such  cases  was  very  different,  proclaimed 
this  as  a  Divine  miracle,  saying:  "I  tell  you,  brethren, 
I  have  seen  wondrous  things  to-day." 

I  believe  that  the  man  to  whom  at  his  will  cruel  things 
became  gentle  had  returned  to  primal  innocence. 

When  St.  Francis  was  crossing  the  lake  of  Rieti  in  a 
little  boat  on  his  way  to  the  hermitage  of  Greccio,  a  fisher- 
man presented  him  with  a'  waterfowl,  that  he  might  re- 
joice over  it  in  the  Lord.  The  blessed  father  received 
the  bird  with  joy,  and  then,  opening  his  hands,  gently 
invited  it  freely  to  fly  away.  The  bird  would  not  depart, 
but  rested  in  his  hands  as  in  a  little  nest,  and  the  Saint 
remained  with  his  eyes  lifted  up  in  prayer.  Then,  after 
a  long  delay,  as  though  coming  back  to  himself  from  else- 
where, he  sweetly  told  the  bird  to  return  without  fear  to 
its  former  liberty.  And  so,  on  receiving  this  permission, 
with  the  holy  man's  blessing,  the  bird  showed  its  joy  by 
some  motion  of  its  body,  and  flew  away. 

In  a  certain  mountain  a  cell  was  once  made  wherein 
the  servant  of  God  performed  the  most  rigid  penance  for 
forty  days.  When  he  departed  thence  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  the  cell,  being  in  a  lonely  place,  remained  untenanted ; 
and  an  earthen  vessel,  out  of  which  the  Saint  used  to  drink, 
was  left  there.  When  some  men  visited  the  spot  later 
out  of  reverence  for  the  Saint,  they  found  the  vessel  full 
of  bees,  who  with  wondrous  skill  were  building  their 
little  cells  therein;  surely  signifying  the  sweetness  of 
contemplation  which  the  Saint  of  God  had  there  enjoyed. 

A  nobleman  of  the  territory  of  Siena  sent  a  pheasant 
2  A  353 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

to  blessed  Francis  who  was  ill.  He  received  it  joyfully, 
not  because  he  desired  to  eat  it,  but  in  the  manner  in  which 
he  was  always  wont  to  rejoice  in  such  creatures  for  love 
of  the  Creator:  and  he  said  to  the  pheasant:  "Praised 
be  our  Creator,  brother  pheasant!"  and,  turning  to  the 
brethren,  "Let  us  try  now  whether  brother  pheasant 
will  stay  with  us  or  go  to  his  usual  haunts  which  are 
better  suited  to  him."  So  one  of  the  brethren  at  the 
Saint's  bidding  carried  the  pheasant  and  put  it  in  a  vine- 
yard far  off,  but  the  bird  hastened  back  forthwith  to  the 
father's  cell.  Again  St.  Francis  ordered  it  to  be  taken 
farther  away,  but  it  again  returned  as  fast  as  possible  to 
the  cell  door,  and  came  in,  almost  forcing  its  way  under 
the  tunics  of  the  brethren  who  were  at  the  door.  So  the 
Saint  ordered  the  pheasant  to  be  carefully  fed,  embracing 
it  and  caressing  it  with  sweet  words.  When  a  certain 
physician,  very  devoted  to  the  Saint  of  God,  saw  this,  he 
asked  the  brethren  to  let  him  have  the  pheasant,  not  to 
eat,  but  to  take  charge  of,  out  of  reverence  for  the  Saint. 
In  short,  he  took  the  bird  home  with  him ;  but  the  pheasant 
on  being  separated  from  St.  Francis  altogether  refused 
to  eat  as  long  as  he  was  away  from  him,  just  as  if  a  wrong 
had  been  done  him.  The  physician  was  astonished,  and 
immediately  carried  the  pheasant  back  to  the  Saint,  telling 
him  in  order  all  that  had  happened.  As  soon  as  the  bird 
was  put  down  on  the  ground  and  saw  its  father,  it  put 
away  its  sadness  and  began  to  eat  joyfully. 

Near  the  cell  of  the  Saint  of  God  at  Portiuncula  a  cicala 
used  to  perch  on  a  fig-tree,  singing  sweetly.  Sometimes 
the  blessed  father  would  hold  out  his  hand  to  her  and  call 
her  kindly  to  him,  saying,  "My  sister  cicala,  come  to  me," 
and  she  immediately  came  up  on  his  hand,  as  though 
endowed  with  reason.     Then  he  said  to  her:    "Sing,  my 

354 


The  Gentle 

sister  cicala,  and  praise  the  Lord  thy  Creator  with  a  joyful 
song."  And  without  delay  she  began  obediently  to  sing,  and 
ceased  not  until  the  man  of  God  mingled  his  own  praise 
with  her  songs,  and  bade  her  fly  back  to  her  accustomed 
place,  where  she  remained  for  eight  days  in  succession, 
as  if  bound.  When  the  Saint  came  down  from  his  cell 
he  always  touched  her  with  his  hands,  and  bade  her  sing, 
and  she  was  always  eager  to  do  his  bidding.  Then  he  said 
to  his  companions:  "Let  us  give  our  sister  cicala  leave 
to  depart,  for  she  has  now  gladdened  us  enough  with  her 
praise ;  that  our  flesh  may  not  have  occasion  for  vainglory 
by  such  things."  And  forthwith  the  cicala  dismissed  by 
him  went  away,  and  never  appeared  there  again.  Seeing 
all  this  the  brethren  wondered  greatly. 

Thomas  of  Celano  {translated  by  A.  E.  Ferrers  Howell) 

Charles  Lounsbury  ^c^^        ^;n^        .<::iy        o         <^ 

r^HARLES  LOUNSBURY  died  recently  in  the  Cook 
^^-'  County  Asylum,  Downing,  Illinois.  As  to  who  he 
was,  and  what  his  age,  I  know  nothing;  all  I  know  of 
him  is  his  last  will  and  testament;  and  if  such  are  the 
bequests  of  the  insane,  let  us  have  less  sanity.  For  it 
seems  to  me  a  beautiful  thing,  and  not  less  so  because  it 
proceeded  from  one  who  had  to  be  put  away,  as  (I  suppose) 
a  danger  to  society. 
He  opens  thus:  — 

"I,  Charles  Lounsbury,  being  of  sound  mind  and  dis- 
posing memory,  do  hereby  make  and  publish  this,  my 
last  will  anrl  testament,  in  order  as  justly  as  may  be  to 
distribute  my  interest  in  the  worlfl  among  succeeding 
men." 

355 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

The  way  being  thus  cleared,  the  real  document  begins, 
and  I  quote  it  in  its  entirety  for  the  humanity  and  beauty 
of  it:  — 

"That  part  of  my  interest  which  is  known  in  law  and 
recognised  in  the  sheep-bound  volumes  as  my  property, 
being  inconsiderable  and  of  no  account,  I  make  no  dis- 
posal of  in  this,  my  will. 

"My  right  to  live,  being  but  a  life  estate,  is  not  at  my 
disposal,  but,  these  things  excepted,  all  else  in  the  world, 
I  now  proceed  to  devise  and  bequeath:  — 

"Item:  I  give  to  good  fathers  and  mothers,  in  trust  for 
their  children,  all  good  little  words  of  praise  and  encourage- 
ment, and  all  quaint  pet  names  and  endearments,  and  I 
charge  said  parents  to  use  them  justly  and  generously, 
as  the  needs  of  their  children  may  require. 

"Item:  I  leave  to  children  inclusively,  but  only  for 
the  term  of  their  childhood,  all  and  every,  the  flowers  of 
the  fields,  and  the  blossoms  of  the  woods,  with  the  right 
to  play  among  them  freely  according  to  the  customs  of 
children,  warning  them  at  the  same  time  against  thistles 
and  thorns.  And  I  devise  to  children  the  banks  of  the 
brooks,  and  the  golden  sands  beneath  the  waters  thereof, 
and  the  odours  of  the  willows  that  dip  therein,  and  the 
white  clouds  that  float  high  over  the  giant  trees.  And 
I  leave  to  children  the  long,  long  days  to  be  merry  in, 
in  a  thousand  ways,  and  the  night  and  the  moon  and  the 
train  of  the  Milky  Way  to  wonder  at,  but  subject  never- 
theless to  the  rights  hereinafter  given  to  lovers. 

"Item:  I  devise  to  boys  jointly  all  the  useful  idle  fields 
and  commons  where  ball  may  be  played;  all  pleasant 
waters  where  one  may  swim;  all  snowclad  hills  where 
one  may  coast,  and  all  streams  and  ponds  where  one  may 


The  Gentle 

fish,  or  where,  when  grim  winter  comes,  one  may  skate; 
to  have  and  to  hold  the  same  for  the  period  of  their  boy- 
hood. And  all  meadows  with  the  clover  blossoms  and 
butterflies  thereof,  the  woods  and  their  appurtenances, 
the  squirrels  and  birds  and  the  echoes  and  strange  noises, 
and  all  distant  places  which  may  be  visited,  together  with 
the  adventures  there  found.  And  I  give  to  said  boys  each 
his  own  place  at  the  fireside  at  night,  with  all  pictures 
that  may  be  seen  in  the  burning  wood,  to  enjoy  with- 
out let  or  hindrance  and  without  any  incumbrance  of 
care. 

"Item:  To  lovers  I  devise  their  imaginary  world,  with 
whatever  they  may  need;  as  the  stars  of  the  sky,  the 
red  roses  by  the  wail,  the  bloom  of  the  hawthorn,  the 
sweet  strains  of  music  and  aught  else  by  which  they  may 
desire  to  figure  to  each  other  the  lastingness  and  beauty 
of  their  love. 

"Item:  to  young  men  jointly  I  devise  and  bequeath 
all  boisterous,  inspiring  sports  of  rivalry,  and  I  give  to 
them  the  disdain  of  weakness  and  undaunted  confidence 
in  their  own  strength,  though  they  are  rude;  I  give  them 
the  power  to  make  lasting  friendships,  and  of  possessing 
companions,  and  to  them  exclusively  I  give  all  merry  songs 
and  brave  choruses,  to  sing  with  lusty  voices. 

"Item:  And  to  those  who  are  no  longer  children  or 
youths  or  lovers,  I  leave  memory,  and  I  bequeath  to  them 
the  volumes  of  poems  of  Burns  and  Shakespeare  and  of 
other  poets,  if  there  be  others,  to  the  end  that  they  may 
live  over  the  old  days  again,  freely  and  fully,  without 
tithe  or  diminution. 

"Item:  To  our  loved  ones  with  snowy  crowns  I  be- 
queath the  ha[)piness  of  old  age,  the  love  and  gratitude 
of  their  children  until  they  fall  asleep." 

357 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

One  would  like  to  know  more  of  Charles  Lounsbury. 
Surely  he  is  one  of  the  most  uncommon  men  that  have 
died  for  some  time  —  perhaps  since  Abou  Ben  Adhem. 
Not  only  great  wits,  but  also  great  lovers  of  their  kind, 
would  seem  to  be  to  madness  near  allied. 

E.  V.  L. 


358 


XXV 
LAST   OF   ALL 

Our  Oldest  Friend        -cy        "=;i^       ^c>       •'O       <::> 

I  GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air. 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife. 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life, 
He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night. 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  l)onc; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 
359 


Some  Friends  of  Mine 

He  came  with  us  to  the  cottage  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass ! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  deadhead  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  tunes  each  of  the  seasons  four; 
And  with  every  season  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still. 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New  Years  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  presents  is  sure  to  send; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be, 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us !  he  pats  our  heads. 
And,  lo!  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads; 
And  he's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair. 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"My  child,  your  labour  on  earth  is  done; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity!" 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company! 
360 


Last  of  All 

When  he  Hes  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class-Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here's  a  health  in  homely  rliyme 
To  our  oldest  Classmate,  Father  Time ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald  and  as  wise  and  as  tough  as  he  1 

O.  W.  Holmes 


361 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

FOR  the  use  of  copyright  matter  in  this  volume  I  thank 
Mrs.  W.  E.  Henley  for  two  of  the  late  W.  E.  Henley's 
poems;  Mr.  Lloyd  Osbourne,  for  R.  L.  Stevenson's 
"Old  Scottish  Gardener";  Mr.  Thomas  Mackay  for  an 
extract  from  Albert  Pell  (Murray);  Mr.  Alfred  Cochrane 
for  "The  Old  Squire"  from  his  Collected  Verses  (Long- 
mans); Mr.  H.  Belloc,  M.P.,  for  passages  from  his  Path 
to  Rome  (Allen),  and  Hills  and  the  Sea  and  On  Nothing 
(Methuen);  Miss  Birnstingl  and  Mrs.  Pollard  for  extract 
from  their  little  Life  of  Corot  (Methuen);  Mr.  Barrie 
for  two  extracts  from  his  Edinburgh  Eleven  (Hodder  &. 
Stoughton);  the  Rev.  S.  Baring-Gould  for  extracts  from 
his  Old  Country  Life  and  his  Lije  of  R.  S.  Hawker  (Me- 
thuen) ;  the  Rev.  P.  H.  Ditchfield  for  an  extract  from  The 
Old  Time  Parson  (Methuen) ;  Messrs.  Longman  and  Mrs. 
Bagehot  for  the  late  Walter  Bagehot's  description  of  Crabb 
Robinson  in  the  Literary  Essays  (Longmans);  Messrs. 
Blackwood  for  a  passage  from  William  Caffyn's  Seventy-' 
one  Not  Out;  the  Oxford  University  Press  for  "Thormod," 
from  the  Origines  Islandicae;  Mr.  Heinemann  for  two 
passages  from  Leland's  translation  of  Heine;  Messrs. 
Macmillan  &  Bowes  for  the  lines  to  John  Sowerby,  by 
A.  C.  Hilton;  and  Messrs.  Methuen  for  the  quotations 
from  Mrs.  Waller's  translation  of  Dumas'  Memoirs. 


362 


The  Gentlest  Art 

A  Choice  of  Letters  by  Entertaining  Ha.nds 
Edited  by  E.  V.  LUCAS 
An  anthology  of  letter-writing  so  human,  interesting,  and  amus- 
ing from  first  to  last,  as  almost  to  inspire  one  to  attempt  the 
restoration  of  the  lost  art. 

"There  is  hardly  a  letter  among  them  all  that  one  would  have 

left  out,  and  the  book  is  of  such  pleasant  size  and  appearance, 

that  one  would  not  have  it  added  to,  either."  —  The  New  York 

Times. 

"The  author  has  made  his  selections  with  admirable  care.    We 

do  not  miss  a  single  old  favorite.     He  has  given  us  all  that  is 

best  in  letter-writing,  and  the  classification  under  such  heads  as 

'  Children   and   Grandfathers,"    '  The   Familiar   Manner,'   '  The 

Grand  Style,'  '  Humorists  and  Oddities'  is  everything  that  can 

be  desired."  —  The  Argonaut. 

"  Letters  of  news  and  of  gossip,  of  polite  nonsense,  of  humor 

and  pathos,  of  friendship,  of  quiet  reflection,  stately  letters  in 

the  grand  manner,  and  naive  letters  by  obscure  and  ignorant 

folk/' 

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The  Friendly  Craft 

Kditki)  15Y  ELIZABETH  D.  HANSCOM 
In  this  volume  the  author  has  done  for  American  letters  what 
Mr.  Lucas  did  for  English  in  "  The  Gentlest  Art," 

"...  An  unusual  anthology.  A  collection  of  American  letters, 
some  of  them  written  in  the  Colonial  period  and  some  of  them 
yesterday;  all  of  them  particularly  human;  many  of  them 
charmingly  easy  and  conversational,  as  pleasant,  bookish  friends 
talk  in  a  fortunate  hour.  The  editor  of  this  collection  has  an 
unerring  taste  for  literary  quality  and  a  sense  of  humor  which 
shows  itself  in  prankish  headlines.  ...  It  is  a  great  favor  to 
the  public  to  bring  together  in  just  this  informal  way  the  delight- 
ful letters  of  our  two  centuries  of  history."  —  The  Independent. 
"  There  should  be  a  copy  of  this  delightful  book  in  the  collec- 
tion of  every  lover  of  that  which  is  choice  in  literature." —  The 
New  York  Times. 

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The  Ladies^  Pageant 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 
"An  unusual  collection  of  poetry  and  prose  in  comment  upon 
the  varying  aspects  of  the  feminine  form  and  nature,  wherein  is 
set  forth  for  the  delectation  of  man  what  great  writers  from 
Chaucer  to  Ruskin  have  said  about  the  eternal  feminine.  The 
result  is  a  decidedly  companionable  volume."  —  Town  and 
Country. 

"To  possess  this  book  is  to  fill  your  apartment  —  your  lonely 
farm  parlor  or  little  '  flat '  drawing-room  in  which  few  sit  — 
with  the  rustle  of  silks  and  the  swish  of  lawns;  to  comfort  your 
ear  with  seemly  wit  and  musical  laughter;  and  to  remind  you 
how  sweet  an  essence  ascends  from  the  womanly  heart  to  the 
high  altar  of  the  Maker  of  Women."  —  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

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London^s  Lure 

An  Anthology  in  Prose  and  Verse 

By  HELEN  and  LEWIS  MELVILLE 

A  selection  of  what  poets  and  prose  writers  have  said  about 
the  great  metropolis  —  that  capital  of  all  Europe  which  has 
for  most  Americans  the  closest  attraction  and  the  most  last- 
ing charm.  Curious  out-of-the-way  places  and  equally 
curious  out-of-the-way  people  are  tucked  away  in  some 
parts  of  the  book,  while  elsewhere,  Westminster  Abbey, 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  other  of  the  more  renowned  parts 
of  the  city  come  in  for  their  share  of  treatment.  Every 
section  of  London  is  here  and  all  the  different  viewpoints 
from  which  it  has  been  regarded,  as  well.  The  authors 
selected  range  from  Herrick,  Shelley,  Lamb,  and  Uazlilt 
to  Hood,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  WiUle. 

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The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Introduction  by  Ed^wa.rd  S.  Martin 
Hitherto  no  one  has  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  collect  in 
book  form  the  many  interesting  things  that  have  been  said 
in  both  prose  and  verse  about  New  York.  This  anthology 
shows  how  the  city,  from  the  yeasty,  seething  East  Side  to 
where  Old  Greenwich  grimly  holds  its  own  as  a  "  village," 
and  from  the  granite  cliffs  of  lower  Broadway  to  where 
"the  serpent  of  stars"  winds  round  the  Morningside  Curve, 
has  impressed  not  alone  one  man,  but  many  different  types 
of  men.  "  Old  New  York  "  as  well  as  "  New  New  York  " 
is  here. 

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The  Book  of  Christmas 

With  an  Introduction  by  Hamilton  W.  Mabie 
and  Dra'wings  by  George  Wharton  Ed^coards 
In  this  book  have  been  gathered  together  the  best  things 
that  have  been  written  about  Christmas,  about  the  spirit  of 
the  time,  of  the  old  customs  and  beliefs,  the  appropriate 
sports  and  revels,  the  best  Christmas  carols  and  hymns,  etc. 
To  accompany  these  Christmas  classics  Mr.  George  W. 
Edwards  has  made  a  large  number  of  admirable  decorative 
drawings,  appropriate  to  the  various  sections  into  which  the 
contents  are  divided.  In  addition,  a  large  number  of  cele- 
brated pictures  by  great  artists  have  been  reproduced  in 
these  pages.  The  greatest  amount  of  attention  has  been 
bestowed  upon  every  detail  that  goes  to  the  making  of  a 
volume  attractive  to  the  eye  of  the  true  book  lover. 

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A  Wanderer  in  London 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

With  sixteen  illustrations  in  color  by  Mr.  Nelson  Dawson,  and 
thirty-six  reproductions  of  great  pictures. 

"  Mr.  Lucas  describes  London  in  a  style  that  is  always  enter- 
taining, surprisingly  like  Andrew  Lang's,  full  of  unexpected 
suggestions  and  points  of  view,  so  that  one  who  knows  London 
well  will  hereafter  look  on  it  with  changed  eyes,  and  one  who  has 
only  a  bowing  acquaintance  will  feel  that  he  has  suddenly  be- 
come intimate." —  The  Nation. 

"  II  you  would  know  London  as  few  of  her  own  inhabitants 
know  her  —  if  you  would  read  one  of  the  best  books  of  the  cur- 
rent season,  all  that  is  necessary  is  a  copy  of  A  Wanderer  in 
London."  —  Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

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A  Wanderer  in  Holland 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

With  twenty  illustrations  in  color  by  Herbert  Marshall,  besides 
many  reproductions  of  the  masterpieces  of  Dutch  painters. 

"It  is  not  very  easy  to  point  out  the  merits  which  make  this 
volume  immeasurably  superior  to  nine  tenths  of  the  books 
of  travel  that  are  offered  the  public  from  time  to  time.  Perhaps 
it  is  to  be  traced  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Lucas  is  an  intellectual 
loiterer,  rather  than  a  keen-eyed  reporter,  eager  to  catch  a  train 
for  the  next  stopping-place.  It  is  also  to  be  found  partially  in 
the  fact  that  the  author  is  so  much  in  love  with  the  artistic  life  of 
Holland."  —  Globe  Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

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A  Wanderer  in  Paris 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

Wherever  Mr.  Lucas  wanders  he  finds  curious,  picturesque  and 
unusual  things  to  interest  others,  and  his  mind  is  so  well  stored 
that  everything  he  sees  is  suggestive  and  stimulating.  He  is 
almost  as  much  at  home  in  Paris  as  in  London,  and  even  those 
who  know  the  city  best  will  find  much  in  the  book  to  interest 
and  entertain  them. 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
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